;/; 



-^-^ 






A 



V. 






\/' 






.^Jv'^' V 



^^ V*^ 






"^ >.. V*' 



I-^ 



.^-^ 






'^-.. 






'f,. s 








^-^2^ 



POEMS 



OF 



/ 



ORELIA KEY BELL 



AiiToo yap eonev Troc/ia. 
'For we are his poem." 



— Eph. ii. lo. 




-^^^' 



PHILADELPHIA 
THB RODGBRS COMPANY 



^ Si 



V 



ys \^ 



•? 



Copyrighted 189s 
By Orelia Key Bell. 



^"^-O^A^ 



TO THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER, 

MARCUS A. BELL, 
IN LOVING reverence; 

TO 

MY MOTHER, MY BROTHERS, MY SISTER; 

AND TO MY BELOVED FRIENDS, 

MRS. MARCUS W. BECK, 
MRS, LIVINGSTON MIMS, 
MRS. MARY POPE COOPER, 

AND 

IDA ASH, 
WHOSE AFFECTION AND ENCOURAGEMENT 

HAVE BEEN AMONG THE CHIEF SOURCES OF MY INSPIRATION; 

TO 

MY TEACHERS, 
MY PASTORS, 
MY EDITORS, 

AND 

TO ALL WHO LOVE MY SONGS, 

IN APPRECIATION OF 

THEIR GUIDANCE, THEIR INDULGENCE, 
THEIR MANY COURTESIES, 

THIS LITTLE VOLUME OF POEMS IS 
FAITHFULLY INSCRIBED. 



GOD IS LOVE. 

I John iv. 8. 



GOD IS lyOVK, breathes all nature's minstrelsy, 
O n earth, in air, upon the murmuring sea ; 
D eep-swelling note, it thrills the early dawn. 
Inspires the day, and charms eve's dusky lawn ; 
Soft, sacred lay, it cheers the midnight gloom, 
hove's voice, e'en heard beyond the silent tomb. 
O sweetest music of the spheres above, 
V ast spheres eternal, ever breathing love. 
E ternal love, soft breathing, GOD IS I<OVK. 

M. A. 



CONTENTS. 



LYRICS. 

PAGE 

Prelude 13 

To Youth {Century Magazine), 31 

Gathering Roses {New York Sun), 31 

Maid and Matron {Detroit Free Press), 34 

Po' Jo' {Atlanta Constitution), 35 

Mariposa {New Orleans Times-Democrat), 39 

Rejected {New Orleans Times-Dejttocrat) , . ■ 46 

Heaven's Floor {New Orleans Times-Detnocrat)^ 47 

At Sunset {Detroit Free Press), 48 

Springsong {Atlanta Constitution), . 50 

Love's Faith {Dixie), 51 

A Day in Winter ( Century Magazine), 52 

Apart {Century Magazine), 52 

MooNRisE Serenade 

{N. O. Times-Democrat. Advance sheet, by permission), 53 

Her Words {New Orleans Times-Democrat), 54 

Her Kisses {Society), 54 

A Mission of Charity {New Orleans Times-Democrat), ... 55 

Blind Tom {New Orleans Times-Democrat), 57 

The Dead Worker {Frank Leslie's Illustrated Weekly), ... 61 

Under Venus {New Orleans Times-Democrat) 62 

Love and Fame, 63 

Love Hymn {Frank Leslie's Popular Monthly), 64 

My Cup, 65 

To a White Rose {New Orleans Times-Democrat), • .... 66 

Violet {New Orleans Tim.es- Democrat), 68 

An Old Valentine, 69 

Were Her Kisses Less Rare? {Detroit Free Press) 69 

Song of the Star Jasmine {Detroit Free Press), 70 

The Poet and the Moth {Detroit Free Press), 71 

After-Peace {Atlanta Constitution), 72 

Sweet-Shrubbing {Detroit Free Press), 73 

Lex Talionis {New York Sun) 74 

5 



6 CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

Love ( Century Magazine), 74 

Grace (^Lippincotf s Magazine) 75 

Jaunette {Detroit Free Press), 75 

A May Regret {New Orleans Times-Democrat), 77 

A Sprig of Periwinkle, 77 

Rain in the Dust {Atlanta Constitution), - 78 

The Eternal Hope, 79 

Under Our Flag {Henry James'' Standard), 79 

Tennyson in Old Age ( Chicago Literary Life), 80 

Amelie Rives {Atlanta Journal), 80 

CoRiNNE {Atlanta Constitution), 82 

Rhea (Atlanta Cottstitution) 83 

Red, White and Blue 

{A Telegram to little Ruth Cleveland on her Arrival in 

the Nation), 83 

A Simple Note of Thanks, 83 

What Flower is Baby Mary? (^F«j/i/«§if(?« CAr.s'wzV/^) . ... 84 

Baby's First Journey (/^Faz/^WjK i^/'a;^azz«^), 85 

"Together Grew Upon One Stem." 86 

To the Autumn Woods of 1888 {Atlanta Constitution) , .... 87 

In Florida {New Orleans Tivtes- Democrat), 88 

In AN Orai^gb. Grove {The Old Homestead), 88 

Bay and Palm {Detroit Free Press) • . . . 89 

On Point of Spanish Bayonet, 89 

O ! Lilies of St. John's {Atlanta Constitution) 89 

A Florida Twilight {Atlanta Journal) , 90 

la-Ew'^looN on'Si-x. ]oiiN's {Jacksonville Times-Union), .... 90 

Sweetheart January {Detroit Free Press), 91 

On Lake Minnehaha {Florida Citizen), 92 

Farewell to Loch Katrine {Orlando Record), 93 

The Lady in the Moon {Detroit Free Press), 94 

In the Caverns of Luray {Atlanta Constitution), 94 

An Unsung Song, 95 

My Dream {Atlanta Constitution), . . . . , 95 

" My Love for you is Luck a Candle Burning " 

{Atlanta Constitution), ... 96 

Lilies for the Baby's Grave {Atlanta Constitution), .... 97 

Welcome, Baby Margaret, 97 



CONTENTS. 



WITH TERPSICHORE. 

PAGB 

The National Dances ( Waltz, Florentine Chanson), 

Detroit Free Press, ... 98 

Vesuvienne {Atlanta journal), 98 

Polka {Atlanta Journal) , 99 

Mazoxj-rka. {Atlanta Journal), 100 

Yish-ek'sHo-rhvivu {Atlanta Journal), 101 

Raquet {Atlanta Journal), 102 



WITH THALIA. 

A Word for Sappho, 103 

Jamestown Weed's Revenge: A Comedy of Two Continents, 104 

Pretty Caprice, 108 

Ballade of the Little Corner {Atlanta Constitution), . . . 109 
A1.B01N AND KosAMOND {Atlanta Constitution), 112 

IN ZION. 

In the Days of My Youth {Atlanta Constitution), 114 

" When First I Essay'd ON My Untutor'd Lyre," 115 

Christ the Living Water (^^/««^« Journal), 1x5 

To- day's Gethsemane {Atlanta Constitution), 117 

"Eastek A-tfTti^M {Atlanta Journal), 118 

The Tree I Love {Atlanta Constitution), 119 

King David Danced, 119 

God Maketh a Way, 121 

Hymn, 122 

Jordan, 123 

IN THE MOUNTAINS OF NORTH GEORGIA. 

Midnight on the Bald, 125 

Cynthia, 126 

Old Father Corn, 130 

Song of a Mountain Maiden, 131 

'E.YB.i {To Music), 132 



CONTENTS. 



MELOmES IN MINOR KEY. 

PAGE 

Rosemary and Rue {Detroit Free Press), 134 

Persian Serenade {Ne-w Orleans Times-Democrat), 135 

Rain in Midsummer {Detroit Free Press), 136 

The Sensitive Visitor (Q'WifMr)/ Tl/czfaszw^?), • . .137 

The Meadowlark {New York Sun), 137 

The Path from me to Thee That Leads, 138 

Under the Laurel {New Orleans Titnes- Democrat ), .... 138 
Betwixt the Mountain and the Main 

{New Orleans Times-Democrat) . , .139 

Floridian Nocturne {Atlanta Constitution), 139 

Love's Welcomers {Detroit Free Press), 140 

Ballad of the Broken Troth 

{New Orleans Times- Democrat), . . . 141 

Between the Lines, 142 

Co-NiVROiJi\?,K {Chicago Literary Life), 143 

First Grief {Atlanta Constitution) ^ 144 

Song in Absence {Atlanta Constitutio7t), 14S 

Laomi : A Dirge, 146 

" Thou Art to Me," 149 

At Mount Enota's Laurel'd Base {Detroit Free Press), . . . 150 



CONTENTS. 



SONNETS. 

PAGE 

A Tear {Atlanta Journal) , 153 

Pretty-by-Nights, 153 

A Little Boy, 154 

A Little Maid, 154 

Life's Paradox {Detroit Free Press), 155 

Grandmother's Garden, I, 155 

Grandmother's Garden, II, 156 

Grandmother's Garden, III, 156 

Grandmother's Garden, IV, 157 

Leigh Hunt, My Bird, I {Century Magazine), 158 

Leigh Hunt, My Bird, II {Century Magazine), 158 

My Shakespeare {Chicago Literary Life) 159 

Wordsworth, 159 

Mrs. Browning {Chicago Literary Life), 160 

Browning, 160 

Tennyson and Longfellow, 161 

Gray, 161 

Lanier {Atlanta Journal), 162 

"After Sorrow's Night," 162 

Cowper's Mary, 163 

Milton's Daughters, 163 

Emma Hahr {Atlanta Constitution), 164 

Washington, 164 

A Georgia Gloaming {Atlanta Journal), 165 

A Florida Afterglow, 165 

Christmas at Loch Katrine, 166 

Yalaha-on-Astatula, 166 

"Once in Mid-Winter Woods in Floraland" 

{N. O. Times- Democrat), . . 167 

"As Day by Day I Seek some Sylvan Isle," 167 

Grace, 168 

Her Eyes {Detroit Free Press), 169 



10 CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Her Hand {Neiv Orleans Times- Democrat)^ 169 

" Since Our Souls Crossed, Sweet Soul" 

{New Orleans Times-Democraf), . .170 
A Song to Cool My Lady {New Orleans Times-Democrat), . 170 

Sleep, I, 171 

Sleep, H, 171 

"In Every Heart some Noble Nerves there are," . . . 172 
To Sonnet Builders : A Message, 172 

THE PIERIDES. 

Clio, Melpomene and Calliope {Atlanta Journal), 173 

Queen South [Atlanta Constitution), 173 

Atlanta {Atlanta Jourftal), 174 

Edison, 174 

A Storm, 175 

A Calm, 176 

Composure, , . . . , 176 

Polyhymnia and Urania {Atlanta Journal) 177 

Hesper, 177 

The Opal, 178 

Erato and Euterpe {Atlanta Journal), 178 

Love, 179 

Rosetime in Washington, 179 

Anticipation, 180 

" She Held Life's Dulcimer," 180 

"And Every Morning as I Passed Her Bower," 180 

" Have you a Right, at First she Asked her Heart," . . 181 

"I Love You So" {Atlanta Constitution) 182 

" Can Time, Thou Ask'st, my Heart from Thine Estrange," 182 

"Earth hath Moments," 183 

"The Pendulum must have the Backward Swing," . . . 183 

Some Day {New Orleans Tivies-Dejnocrat), 184 

Thalia and Terpsichore {Atlanta Journal), 185 

"Were I a Rosevine in Her Garden Growing " 

{Atlanta Journal), . . .385 

A Virginia Moonset, 186 

"May'st Peel me a Peach?" 186 



CONTENTS. 11 



PACK 

Mam Aggy, I, 187 

Mam Aggy, II, 187 

The Minuet, 188 



THE HEAVENLY MUSE. 

Invocation {Detroit Free Press), 189 

Mizpah, 190 

"God First" {New Orleans Times-Democrat'), 190 

Grace, 191 

"We make Mistakes, and God O'erruleth them " 

{Atlanta Journal), . . 19 j 

Beatitude the Second {Atlanta Constitution), 192 

Ida Ash, 193 



PARABLES. 

The Sower, 194 

The Wheat and the Tares, 194 

The Mustard Seed, the Leaven, and the Goodly Pearl, 195 

The Ten Talents, 195 

The Ten Virgins, 196 

The Good Samaritan, 197 

The Lost Sheep, 197 

The Unmerciful Servant, 198 

The Rich Fool, 198 

The Fig Tree and all the Trees, 199 

At Truth's Door {Atlanta Constitution), 199 

Faith and Superstition, 200 



Abraham {Atlanta Constitution), 201 

Jacob, " " 201 

Joseph, " " 202 

Moses, " " 202 

Job, " " 203 

Isaiah, " " 203 



12 CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Christ, {Atlanta Constitution) 204 

Jesus, " " 205 

John, " " 203 

Peter, " " 206 

Paul, " " 206 

ISCARIOT, " " 207 

Eve, 207 

Cain's Wife, 208 

Hagar, 208 

Sarah, 209 

Rebekah, 209 

Rachel, 210 

Ruth and Naomi, 210 

VaSHTI, 211 

Dorcas, 211 

Miriam, Deborah and Anna, 212 

Magdalene, 212 

Mary, 213 

In the Crucible (Atlanta Constitution), 213 

" In Thought the Seven Great Mounts I Visited," . , . 214 
"There are Ten Precious Streams I Love to Trace,". . 214 

A Psalm of Comfort, 215 

Narcissus, 215 

Anemone, 216 

L'ENVOI. 

A Vision of Art 217 

My Sonnets, 218 



PRKlvUDK. 



PART I. "Rest Here, I^ittle Songs." 

A home for my poor little pilgrim rhymes. 

Nestle ye here with your weary wings. 

For many moons, and in many climes, 

Ye have journey'd, and brought home precious things : 

Gold for bread— ah ! that was sweet— 
On bread alone man cannot live, 
Yet day by day must we entreat 
Our Heavenly Father bread to give ; — 

Bright laurel leaves— albeit our brow 
Reluctantly to wear them bends ; 
And, dearest of all in this life below, 
The hearts of a few tried, trusted friends. 

And so I have built you a beautiful nest 
Of the trees Father planted around the old home, 
With a cedar foundation, and bright silver dome, 
And wall'd it with pictures of those I love best. 

Here are Father and Mother and fair Sister Ada, 
And Brother Piromis (we pet-nam'd him Pie — 
Which teased him, but he couldn't help it, poor boy !) 
And Robert the Papa, and sweet little Cade, O ! 

And " Grandmother Dearest," my best-beloved friend, 
Who gave me the locket to wear o'er my heart, 
And the Bible to bond us when we are apart — 
And I know she'll be faithful to me e'en to the end. 

And " Popie " the precious, and gold-hearted " Creagh, 
Cousin Tishia, who makes the poetical soups, 

13 



14 PRELUDE. 

And, to fill out this loveliest of family groups, 
Frances, Mary, and Creagh Bell, darUng girl-trio. 

My Lady of ladies (full-length, hands and all — 
The songs tell about herj. And, under this latch, 
My " Century lovers " (they said 'twas our match, 
And upon us their blessings unceasingly fall), 

I thought 'twas too sweet when he sent her ''APART^^ 
(With a bunch of white violets pinn'd on it) out West. 
And I doubt not she sat with it press'd to her heart 
For an hour or more. Love like this must be blest. 

And I doubt not that one of her beautiful long locks 
She dipt for him then. (This is under the rose, 
Little Songs— this is something to hold very close — 
One talks very freely 'way down in one's song-box.) 

Sweet Anne (we married her too — she who fell 
From the moon to get wed.)* And sad-eyed Mary Rex, 
Who sings by the sea. My biographers six : 
Belle, Annie and Mary, Maude, Mildred and Mel.f 

Next comes my good Doctor, from whose laboratory 
I get iron tonic and nice pepsin pills, — 
Who recommends "changes" and trips to " Tocco-ie," 
And is so kind and modest in making out bills. 

Sweet Ftta, the wife, with the deep mother-heart — 
As she loves " Baby Mary " so do I love my pets, — 
And like a rare jewel this little maid sits 
In the depths of my Cabinet— a triumph of Art.' 

See her pure little face peeping up from the box 
Into Grandmother's eyes, which look down from the cover, 
While the silver and gold of their intertwined locks 
Wind all 'round my heartstrings, for I am their lover 

*See '■^The Lady in the Moon,'''' page 94. 

t Belle K. Abbott, Annie Logan Anderson, Maude Andrews, 
Mary F. Bryan, Mildred Rutherford, and Mel R. Colquitt. 



PRELUDE. 15 

"AuntLila" and " Annie and Tom " do but seem 
A part of themselves, so to have them is right ; 
And dear blind " Aunt L,izzie," v^ith such inner light 
Of spirit to guide her— and blessed " Aunt Em." 

Ah ! my two charming Sarahs— how diflferently charming !— 
One chants her Te Deum and rolls out her dough 
To perfection ! The other just rivets you thro' 
With her jewel-bright eyes— but with no aim at harming. 
Mrs. Orme, with the face like a vision of rest — 
A Florida lake 'neath an October moon— 
Whose mission in life is to bring heaven down 
To her circle. One I^ily blooms out of her breast. 
Here are Corinne the gifted, our Cushman of Art, 
And Emma the genius, and Emma the beauty, 
And Emma the saucebox, the mix'd tuttifrutti 
Of sugars and spices, by turns sweet and tart. 
And Helen the nightingale, Ella the queenly, 
Anita the skylark— and last, but not least, 
Eeonora the learned, who descants serenely 
In Sanscrit and Browning, our classic high-priest.* 
Now my far-famous teachers. Miss I,aura the pious. 
The ponsassitioruvi she led us athwart, 
And with French Verbs and Logarithms did edify us. 
But now the poor heathen claims most of her heart. 
And those two noble Mallons (sweet be their repose !) 
He doubled our joys and divided our woes ; 
She the " Young Lochinvar " taught us how to recite 
The "Bells," and the " Curfew Shall iVi^jf Ring To-night." 
(I was charm'd when she told me " Blind Tom" in the circus- 
scene 
Where the lady, you know, is wound up in the moccasin— 
Quite gave her the creeps. So the music did me.) 
An artist must be realistic, you see. 

* Corinne Ruth Stocker, Emma Hahr-Dobbs, Emma Mims 
Thompson, Emma Muse- Warren, Helen Knight, Ella M. Powell, 
Anita Henderson-McDauiel, and Leonora Josephine Beck. 



16 PRELUDE. 

Aye ! I love that kind snake, and I always shall pet it, 
For it fetcht me the loveliest tortoise-shell pair 
Of opera lorgnettes, that made one see clear 
To the end of the world— I can never forget it ! 

And prithee why not ?— if the woman must tread 

(So the edict went forth) on the old serpent's head, 

Why should not this pet snake fetch from Blind Tom to me 

A pair of good lenses thro' which I could see ? 

The '■'■Love Hymn " bewitched her. Not one line drawn thro' it 
As she blue-mark'd it 'round in the " Kxercise Book " — 
And I think (I was blushing too madly to look) 
That she must have prefix'd the one-kundred-tnark to it ! 

But ah ! when that ' ' Love Hymn ' ' fetcht me the sweet bonnet— 
'Twas the crowning encomium — " a raging success 1"^ 
Miss Holroyd had fix'd it. Now let time pass on it 
What verdict it would !— (But I seem to digress.) 
Here is earnest Miss Millie, who gave candy mice 
When we work'd out our Algebra all by ourselves. 
And now her great text-books fill national shelves. 
Her AMERICAN AUTHORS is call'd very nice. 
Now my Kditors grand — men of cheques and few words- 
Gilder, Dana, and Baker ; and shrewd little Clark 
(Who pays me for poems, but says, ' ' Keep it dark ! — 
Because in the south are so many sojig birds.'''') 
Henry Grady, the genius, who " brought us to light," 
And order'd one sonnet a week by the year ; 
And the kind Free Press man, whose head is so queer 
He couldn't grasp anthems—" preferr'd something light." 
(By coquettish "■ Jatmette'''' was his heai-t quite capsiz'd. 
When I wrote an inquiry about her debut, 
He replied, the engraver was struck paralyz'd 
By her charms, and entreated a week more or two. 
Ah ! but when those brave little vignettes came to light, he 
Redeem'd himself wholly : that Night-blooming Cereus 
Had something about it so deep and mysterious. 
And that rose— 'twould have serv'd to adorn Aphrodite !) 



PRELUDE. 17 

Here is dear Mr. Gilder, who liked my " To Youth " — 
' An exquisite thing— might the Century use it ? " 
The cheque was ten dollars— how could one refuse it ? 
Thought I, Here's a gentleman now, in good sooth ! 

But when for my Christmas iambs* he sent thirty. 
Why, I fear'd he'd gone mad — should I send back the cheque ? 
Such recklessness sure the sweet Century would wreck, 
Thought I— either that, or I must be a Goethe ! 

There was one little thing my beatitude checkt tho'. 
And kept me still humble on terra firma — 
'Tis my single offense, but it made the muse murmur 
And hang a sad head— it was writ in dialect, oo ! 

Should I keep the vile cheque, in that time of adversity ? 
I ask'd Mother first. She said, " Don't let it loose." 
Then I ask'd my sweet Lady : " Yes, you little goose ! 
And buy you some ribbons. It shows your diversity." 

So I kept the big cheque, tho' my conscience did chide me, 
But somehow those coins would not ring in my pocket, 
And I can't put that dialect pome in a booklet. 
' Thimtimes ' ' I had no dear Grandma to guide me. 

Page Baker, my friend of the lyrical bias. 

Affects serenades—just died o'er my " Persian " — 

Toward which Mr. Dana had such an aversion 

He return 'd it, with words which were other than pious. 

' High time that you poets were letting," he wrote, 
' The poor bulbul alone." Without pausing to shed 
A tear, I hurl'd back at his silver old head 
My "-Gathering Roses "—which went down his throat — 

Striking fire from the flint of his benedict heart. 
' Bewitching ! " he answered — the cheque was a V — 
' Sing again for The Sun ; and accept thou from me 

The enclosed honorarium.'' Which so eas'd my smart, 

* ' ' Christmas Thimtimes. ' ' 



18 PRELUDE. 

That, in the Criterion's earnest behalf, 

I ask'd him to sing us a song. Never tarried 

His answer— it made us half weep and half laugh — 

'Twas simply : ''luse'd to sing songs, but I viarried." 

Now this verj'' same " Gathering Roses " he lov'd so 
Mr. Baker had lately return 'd in a huff. 
" Just so ! " I reflected, " here's pointer enough : 
They are built vice versa." And always it prov'd so. 

Once Mrs. Frank Leslie wrote such a kind letter— 
Which for " The Dead Worker'''' a cheque did enclose. 
And ask'd me for tales. I replied, I knew better — 
" The greatest antithesis to poetry is prose." * 

And Lollie Belle Wylie. that newspaper artist, 
Did so kindly usher some debutante lyrics 
Into " Society," along with the smartest ! — 
Pink-frockt, and bejewel'd with pure panegyrics. 

See my faithful song-guardians, Frank I,, and Thad 'B,.^ 
Who rescued my manuscripts from the bad imps, 
And managed to give my glad proof-eye a glimpse, 
And got editorial setting for me ! 

' ' Uncle Remus, ' ' whose spring editorials are sweeter 
Than half the .spring poems that lean upon metre. 
Who, altho' a shirker of anapests, O ! 
Did write .such sweet things of my little Pd' Jo\ 
Aye, my little Po' Jo'' did so work on his graces. 
He ardently proffer'd me one of his locks 
Of hair to enliven my precious song-box. 
But little Clark said it would set it in blazes ! 
Mr. John Temple Graves so o'errated our fame, 
And so shock'd Mrs. Browning's (in the old Tribune days ; 
For I love my songs ' ' purely, as men turn from praise ' ' ) 
That we can't face him here, tho' we'll mention his name. 
Ah ! that old Southern gentleman, General Walker— 

"That modem Sir Galahad," that round-table talker,— 

* Wordsworth. 



PRELUDE. 19 

And unlike my " Sensitive Visitor'''' (alack !) 
This gallant horseman is sure to drive back. 

They marvelled why over my maiden bed 
The scarr'd face of Augelo hung evermore, 
With its sorrow-sunk eyes bending searchingly o'er. 
' I,est I grow too happy in singing," I said. 

I,ike guardsmen they stand, those two eyes calling Halt I 
When the feet of my song touch the quicksands of pleasure. 
And the Major, my friend, fills this masculine measure. 
Kvery song-box, I ween, needs a good pinch of salt. 

Brave Elizabeth Bisland, whose wee Southern boot 
Chased her pen 'round the globe in a dizzy pursuit, — 
But Hypomene's love-apple dropp'd on her track 
Atalanta hath lured to Arcadia back. 

And our kind Mrs. Bryan, whom we spared to the north, 
With her tenderest of hearts and her quickest of quills, — 
But her term has expired now, and back to her hearth 
We have called her to rest 'midst her native red hills. 

And brilliant Maude Andrews, whose poems and prose, 
As luminous and warm as the sunlight that glows 
In her hair and her eyes, cheer our hearths till her "other 
Self" * is quite lost in her true self, poet-mother. 

And sad-soul'd Mel Colquitt, who dives to the deeps 

Of life's troubled waters and brings us up pearls 

As lucid and pure as the dewdrop that seeps 

To its heart when the Night-blooming Cereus unfurls. 

Our Georgia crown-jewel, immortal Lanier, 

Melodious Stanton, and that rainbow-woman — 

That beautiful, passionate, palpitant human— 

Too poised for a meteor, too warm for a star, 

Too bold for a flower— rare Amelie Rives ! 

And that daughter of Pan, who seems to flee from us 

More fast than we follow — white- wing' d Edith Thomas, 

And behind her a white trail of chastity leaves. 

♦Referring to her beautiful poem, " My Two Selves.'* 



20 PRELUDE. 

And gentle Charles Hubuer, beloved of Haytie, 

Who laid the last wreath on the laureate's brow, 

And caught the last strains from his harpstrings, which now 

He sends thro' the South in a soothing refrain. 

And Dumas the gifted— that offshoot of Poe, 
Whose '■'■Mockingbird'''' echoes the '■'■Raven's'''' own woe, 
And whose ' ' Dinner Horn ' ' sounds from our hill-tops. — And ah! 
Here's to grey-hair'd Judge Bleckley, our poet-at-law. 

(I can never be thankful enough to the Judge 
For carrying my love-lyrics in his coat-pockets. 
Most judges, kept busy digesting their dockets. 
Or docketing their digests, would call suchlike /mo^^^. 

My little " My Love for You is Like a Candle 

Burning'''' leapt upward and gave such a sputter. 

When it heard he had sent it away in a letter, 

That the stick danced and all but run off with the handle !) 

Ah, '^'^ Leigh Hutit, tny Bird " — my little song-master ! 
Who sits in his swing by my desk all the day. 
And trills out melodious roundelays faster 
Than fancy can follow or passion keep sway. 

(He was so precious proud when he sang his way in 
That Kden of songbirds, the Century Magazine, 
He must needs be photo'd !— but it tried the poor lens, he 
So friskt his head side to side in his sweet phrenzy!) 

Sweet Shelley, the Sensitive ; Keats, his twin-spirit 
(If Leigh Hunt, my bird, they might only have known !) — 
And that Portuguese lover— my idol, my own- 
That best part of Browning, E;iizabeth Barrett. 

Beloved Longfellow ! what song-box could spare 
This face of the singer of life's sweetest psalm ! 
So benignant, so true.— 'Twere as if the pet lamb 
Had estrayed from the fold— 'twere the one vacant chair. 

And here is my Tennyson— my Father's last gift 
(On my birthday) before he was laid to his rest— 



PRELUDE. 21 

Thro' the skies of our grief he made many a rift- 
Next my Milton and Shakespeare, I love him the best. 

I^ike these oaks that he loved he was sturdy and brave, 
My Father— he fought with his arm and his pen, 
And he died for his loved ones — this gentlest of men — 
And now the wild heartsease blows over his grave. 

When good old Zaccheus, his Master to see. 

The sycamore climbed, he left his foot-prints 

On the bark, which has crinkled and curled ever since, 

So I thought, and I named it my Testament Tree. 

Whoever had dream' d that the showy dogwood 
Would reveal such an exquisite grain at its heart — 
Just as some rustic folks, who are clever and good. 
Take on a fine polish that baffles town art. 

Ah ! the silver-leaved poplar — my rainy day tree, 
I called it, because in my times of repining. 
It always kept turning its bright side to me, 
Like Longfellow's cloud with its silvery lining. 

The crabapple tree always filled me with laughter,— 
Such bitter fruition from promise so sweet ! 
Two-faced, like some pretty people you meet — 
Their smile is so sweet, you forgive the bite after. 

But, alas, the wild cherry — distillery whence 
Flowed the red current of innocent wine. 
Neither atitis nor prohis, in daj^s of lang syne, 
It was patronized freely by us on the fence. 

Ah ! I mused as I paused there solemnly, 
And gazed on the ghost so gray and stark. 
And drew out my blade from the sapless bark. 
So all earthly pleasures must crumble to clay. 

And the great spreading7?g- — was it too a wraith ? — 
It had seven branches ; we thought each a heaven, 
And we swung there in bliss all the morning and even — 
Till a great horned devil-horse upset our faith ! 



22 PRELUDE. 

Mighty meetings were held in that noble old tree. 
There the neighborhood youth met in grand federation — 
Unsectarian we were — every creed, every nation — 
Jew, Gentile and African, fearless and free. 

I^ackaday ! she was dead. But a lively offshoot — 
A grandchild perhaps of the third generation, 
Did modestly reach me a handful of fruit— 
Which set memory moving in dear palpitation. 

And what did I do in return for her grace? 

Why, I eagerly basketed all of her fruit. 

Then quietly sliced off a piece of her face 

To go in my song-box. She smiled and was mute. 

Perhaps she was glad, in her inmost sap. 

To be polished, and baited herself for the trap. 

Poor figtree ! since blighted by Truth, her remorse 

Has refined her somewhat, tho' her grain is still coarse. 

As I stood by the gate, in the old back yard, 

I saw the veritable nut-dented stone 

We had used to crack walnuts and " scaley barks " on — 

And the struggle to keep back the tears was hard. 

All around the green globe has the glory gone forth 

Of our grand Georgia pines. Both Hayne and Lanier 

Have sung them immortal. This little splint here, 

Is more unto me than a forestful worth. 

It was pick'd from the old-fashion'd kitchen door-sill 

Where sat Mammy Aggy, once, kneading her bread. 

With a snovs^ bandanna pinn'd over her head — 

Poor faithful old soul, I can see her there still. 

It was she who when war raised its horrid alarms 

Refugeed thro' the flames that leapt 'round the door, 

Wrapp'd me safe from all harm in her honest black arms, 

And cradled me there till the struggle was o'er. 

Here are chips fifty-seven of rare vines and trees 

By Major Mims planted 'round lovely " Heartsease." 

Tea Olive and Cypress, Magnolia, Pecan, 

And imported Evergreens Australian. 



PRELUDE. 23 

Rubber Tree, Iron Tree, Jasmine, Sweet Bay, 
Water Oak, Gold Tree, the " White Funeral Tree," 
Wild Peach, aud Honeysuckle, Boxwood, Althea, 
(These grains do but give one a polish'd idea.) 

Here the Delaware crosses the grape Sctippernong ; 
There the regal Wisteria, lends a wee prong ; 
And behold here a glimpse of that rare Mareschal Neil 
That into my lady's south casement doth steal. 

ISor did we forget that superb Trumpet Flower 

That flags royal welcome in entering this bower. 

Dear " Heartsease ! " beneath the cool shade of your trees 

How many a heartache hath found its surcease. 

Behold the Titnes- Democrat, Sun, and Free Press 

Of one accord meet and each other caress ; 

And mirabile dictu ! the Constitution Sind Journal 

Inlaid side by side in sweet concord eternal. 

A slice from Thad Horton's big chair editorial, 

Baker's pen, Howell's pencil, cut smoothly in half; 

And here Mr. Gilder's sweet Century memorial 

Is mosaic' d in, with his rare autograph. 

Ah ! that darling wee " corner " that fetches us food — 

To omit it were basest of ingratitude ; 

So some strips from this d^av petite mignon I took 

To corner my song-box with, just for good luck. 

Rest here, little songs ! in your beautiful nest ; 

It was you brought the straws, and I wove them with love I 

And never again from my side shall you rove. 

For the mother-love always is surest and best. 

Rest here, little songs, 'neath your gold-broider'd covers, 

With sweet rainbow ribbons tied true lover- wise, 

"While jealously o'er you the mother-pride hovers, 

And where no hawk-like critic can level his eyes. 

Rest here, little songs ! Your sweet images roaming 

May lodge now and then in the heart of a friend, 

(Please God !) but no more from my casement I'll bend 

In night-watches to list for your precious home-coming. 



24 PRELUDE. 

Rest here, little songs ! It was Heaven who gave 
You to me, and I'll live with you close to my heart, 
And never again with my own shall I part, 
Until the wild heartsease blows over my grave. 



PART II. "Alas, Little Songs." 

Alas ! little songs— there's no rest for the just. 
My friends cried, ' 'A book ! ' ' — in my love and my pity 
I arose in the nighttime and— turned you to dust. 
Alas ! " we have here no continuing city." 

In the urn of your ashes I mingled the brine 

Of my grief with the oil of my sacrifice, 

And I watched the sweet incense to Heaven arise, 

And I thought that my darlings were saved by that sign. 

Saved, from the hot caldron of syndicate steel, 
The merciless hammer, the file and the wheel ; 
Saved from the great Press-Fiend's insatiate maw ; 
Saved from that vain battle for copyright law. 

Saved from pirates. Imagine my lambkins, " Po' Jo' " 
And " Jimson Weed " deckt out in cheap paper-frocks 1 
Nay ! better these ashes in this precious box. 
Than the dust of the ages— and spiderwebs, O ! 

Still my friends cried, "A book ! " Still I shook a sad head- 
And grieved for my little ones — made a low moan 
In the night, as the wine-press I trod all alone. 
My children were buried — btit they were not dead. 

They came back to me as I toss'd on my pillow. 
By the waters of Babylon when I sat down. 
Their little hands run o'er my harp in the willow — 
They haunted me everywhere !— joy had flown. 

How I miss'd their dear lispings, their sweet cunning airs, 
Their cute teasing ways when they clamber' d for rhymes. 
Their little heartaches, and their clear laughter chimes — 
But I miss'd them most nestling about me at prayers. 



PRELUDE. 25 

Their very false steps were now precious to me— 

For at times they seem'd bold and their wings must be clipt, 

Or out of my power complete they had slipt — 

But always they ventured in innocency. 

In gentlest obedience, for the most part, 
They bent to my wish— and their sweet modest air 
As they went on their way, was remarked everywhere. 
If I had them back now they might trample my heart I 

My obedient anapests, pretty and plump. 
Always went to their work with a hop, skip and jump. 
When I asked them to sing for me, each little miss 
Would fall quick into line, with a measure like this. 

My twin spondees sat so erect. 
In church, and looked so orthodox, 
The pastor bless' d them on their locks, 
And said they must be of th' elect. 

And sometimes (I hold it a capital idea) 

My best little dactyls I took to the play. 

With Blind Tom my pets were quite carried away, 

And they went into lyrics o'er Mad'moiselle Rhea. 

(She asked them so archly, what else could they do ?) 
And " sweet Katie Putnam " inspired them too. 
And Corinne's Po' Jo' quite bewitch'd them. But ah ! 
Their little feet leapt when they heard E)mma Hahr. 

My gentle Iambs / ever ready 

To guide your brother's foot from stumbling, 

How oft you held the sonnet steady. 

And kept hexameters from tumbling. 

Sadly sometimes would I wander by the melancholy shore, 
There to "scan" my pensive trochees to the plashing of 

the oar. 
Or to teach them from shell-music how to pitch a minor key, 
Or to borrow elegiacs from the sea-wind's revery. 

But now, older grown, some must needs earn their salt, 
And go out to war in the magazine marts — 



26 PRELUDE. 

Perchance to return to me empty or halt- 
Aye me ! 'tis the proof-sheet that tries mother-hearts. 

But their little home missions return' d them to me, 
If not rich, at least honored, and pure from world-stain, 
And I gathered them 'round the dear hearthstone again 
To share my sweet cup of retiracy. 

".<4 book,'''' said my friends, and in accents so bold 
That I turu'd very white, and I turn'd very chilly. 
Must the critics come down, like the Sj^rians of old, 
Must the critics swoop down, "like a wolf on the fold," 
And gobble my little ones, willy or nilly ! 

Nay, better cremation — a pure holocaust, 

With sighing for frankincense, weeping for myrrh, 

While witnessing angels their wings over-stir. — 

So the ashes were urn'd— and my darlings were lost. 

Now swift-wing'd Repentance beside me awaits. 

I weep, like the Peri at Paradise-Gates. 

She points to the walls of my conscience, with " Look! " 

In God's own handwriting I read there, " A book.^'' 

Then fall I to my knees and make I a low moan, 
And cry I, " Would to God I had died for my own ! " 
But our Father knows best how to answer our prayer. 
When I wake, lo ! the Angel of Memory is there. 

She wipes the last tear from my grief-dazed eyes. 
And points a rainbow in my storm-shaken skies. 
And leads me, so gently, thro' twilights and dreams 
Past the borders of Lethe to Helicon streams. 

Over lyrical meadows she measures my feet 

Where they first learned to trip ('tis a harder task now), 

And in bucolic harness she makes me to plow 

Old fields where Pegasus once flew, lightning-fleet. 

With yardstick and tapeline the square she makes plain 
Where the sonnet, if classical, needs must dovetail 
Its sextette into its double quatvain 
(To miss by a hair were ignobly to fail). 



PRELUDE. 27 

Oft slie held the candle while I swept the floor 
For the tenth piece of silver, and when its true ring 
She heard, the nine others she quickly would bring 
And help me rejoice while I counted them o'er. 

Thus we marshal!' d them home, foot by foot, line by line, 
Oft journeying at night thro' the storm and the cold 
To bring back the lost hundredth rhyme to the fold, 
More precious than all of the ninety-and-nine. 

Some few still elude me. Perhaps it is weU— 
Peradventure I leaned on them more than was wise ; 
Or perchance one day yet, out of uninvoked skies 
They wiU come flutt'ring down in some soft twilight spell. 



PART III.— " Farewell, Little Songs." 

Farewell, little songs ! Tho' you leave me behind 

Sorrowful, lonely, at least for a time, 

There is comfort in this, that no motive unkind 

Has inspired you with thoughts I would ever unrhym^e. 

Farewell, little songs ! Sprinkle dews from your wings. 
If for life's deeper griefs you have no antidotes. 
You at least may breathe balm on its workaday stings 
And chase with your music its discordant notes. 

Farewell, little songs ! Be not over-ambitious, 
Lest, suddenly soaring, you reel down the air. 
(Remember poor Wolsey !) The earth is still precious. 
Seek, too, the low valleys and spread solace there. 

Now if Grandmother Dearest her white hands wiU spread 
O'er my darlings, and pour from her heart's golden vial 
A prayer and a blessing, no fate will they dread, 
As they go forth rejoicing to meet every trial. 



LYRICS, 



29 



LYRICS. 



TO YOUTH. 
'TOUCH love with prayer ; 

It is a holy thing. 

No dove with snowier wing 
Fann'd Eden air. 

To mortal care 

Heaven's whitest angel, Truth, 

Entrusted it. O Youth ! 
Touch love with prayer. 

GATHERING ROSES. 
r\ THE deliciousness 
^ Of the fresh season ! 
Red roses, white roses, 

Roses past reason ! 
Out of my gardenful, 
Sweetheart ! the sv/eetest cull, 
Sweetest for posies — 
All are so beautiful— 
Which shall my sweetheart cull, 
Sweetest for posies ?— 
O the unspeakable, 
Untold deliciousness. 

Gathering roses ! 

31 



32 LYRICS. 

Frail, odoriferous 

Sweet-briar' d Eglantere ; 
Thorn-studded, cluster-leav'd. 

Pink Ottar roses — 
Nay ! Sweetheart, have a care ! 
Touch not that Circean snare, 
Cull not that rose for me — 
She will be pricking thee, 

Making my posies. 
All are so beautiful, — 

Which shall my sweetheart cull, 
Sweetest for posies ? — 
O the untunable. 

Unsung deliciousness. 

Gathering roses ! 

Gold-hearted, plush-petal' d 

Mareschal Niel roses — 
Almost upon your stem 

The scissors she closes ; 
Moon-color' d, moss-crested 

Nonpareil roses — 
Nay ! thou'rt the day-couch 

Where Luna reposes ; 
Virgin-immaculate 

Pale climbing roses — 
There Mariposa 

Dreamily dozes. 
Passionate deep-center' d 

Jacqueminot roses — 
No redder, no rarer 

Blossom uncloses. 



33 



All are so beautiful, 
Which shall my sweetheart cull, 
Sweetest for posies ? — 
O the undreamable, 
Undreamt deliciousness, 

Gathering roses ! 

Nay ! little sweetheart mine, 

Not with the scissors-tips 
Cull we the sweetest rose — 

Dear ! it blows upon thy lips — 
Sweetest rose in Paradise ! 
Cruellest rose in Paradise ! 
And this moment, stooping down- 
So — I cull it for mine own 
{Spite of thorns within thine eyes)- 
Cull me a whole heartful 

Of life's rarest posies — 
O the ineffable 

Eden-deliciousness, 

Gathering roses ! 



34 LYRICS. 



MAID AND MATRON. 

'FHUS a maiden, light and fair, 

To a dame with silver' d hair, 
*' Tell me how love cometh." 

"Listen," 
Comes reply, while tear-drops glisten 
In the memory-melting eyes. 
" You will wake one morn to see 
A bluer blue spread o'er the skies 
Than was erewhile wont to be, 
On the rose a redder red, 
A softer down upon the thistle, 
And the skylark overhead 
Will so soft a matin whistle, 
You will wonder why before 
You loved not to listen more. 
All the earth and all the air 
Will seem so fresh, will seem so fair, 
You will chide your unbelieving : 
* Surely life is worth the living ! ' 
Work for heart and work for hand 
Will spread all around you. And, 
Since loving one, and loving much, 



LYRICS. 85 

Breeds loving many, o'er you such 

A sense of charity will steal 

That, like Schiller, you will feel 

A wish to rush'midst its alarms 

And snatch the world up in your arms ! 

Ah, child ! you will be nearer Heaven 

In that hour than it is given 

Unto mortals ere to be 

Again." 

The maiden, pensively 
This time, with hand press 'd to her brow : 
** Now that you have told me how 
Cometh love," she said, "suppose 
That you tell me how love goes." 
Gravely shook the silver' d head. 
*' Child, love never went," she said. 



PO' JO'. 

'THRO' mossy glade, by woodland belt, 
Her gentle way she wendeth. 
In the calm grace of her dear face 
That peace of God all men have felt. 
But no man understandeth. 
Soft ! she hearkeneth (never to me[!) — 
Sweetly from topmost bough o' the tree, 
Jo-re-ter, jo-re-ter, jo-re-ter, jo-ree ! 



36 LYRICS. 

O, rare is the scent of the clover bloom, 

The hovering honey-bee sucketh. 
The blossom most fair she will braid in her hair, 
Nay ! never a bloom she plucketh. 
For the earth and for me careth not she. 
Jo-re-ter, jo-re-ter, jo-re-ter, jo-ree! 

All at her feet lieth meadow sweet — 

Surely her eyes she lowereth ! — 
Only to lift to a gold-blue rift 
Thro' the trees to the sky she adoreth. 
For the earth and for me careth not she. 
Jo-re-ter^ jo-re-ter^ jo-re-ter, jo-ree! 

Now at a turn maidenhair-fern 

Feathereth her pathway quaintly. 
Faeries ! there hidden to flaunt them when bidden, 
Lie low ! for her step is saintly. 
Never her eyes she lets fall from the skies — 
Or only so low as yon heaven-most tree. 
Jo-re-ter, jo-re-ter, jo-re-ter, jo-ree ! 

The devil's shoe-string doth its bright eyelet-ring 

Slip to entangle her treading ; 
The broken milkweed poureth out its pale meed — 
All to her foot's unheeding. 

Not even the daisy she noteth — why me? 
Jo-re-ter, jo-re-ter, jo-re-ter^ jo-ree ! 



LYRICS. 37 

II. 

A RAGGED edge of wheatfield. 

Capering wheat-bugs, hoppers green, 
Rotting logs where Hzards play — 
That feet so white should stray this way ! 

Not a blossom to be seen. 
Nay ! a ragged yellow weed — 
Dog- fennel can it be? 
Some poor straggler gone to seed 
Or ere it reach'd maturity? 
Or faded golden-rod left o'er 
From last autumn's treasure-store? — 
All amongst the wheat it creepeth, 
Scrambleth over rocks and logs, 
Out of crevices it peepeth, 
In the glazy branch-pool bogs. 
Hang-dog head, 
Buff brown eyes, 
Shameless stalk, a pole for flies. 
Weed unsightliest 'neath the skies ! 

What a dazed, dogged air ! 

Desolately, desperately 

Reaching, dodging everywhere ! 
Heaven-set gaze like her's — aye me ! 
List from out the neighboring tree. 
In a plaintive minor key, 

Jo-re-ter^ jo-re-ter, jo-re-ter, jo-ree f 

My lady pauseth — bendeth low — 
Touch so pure on weed so gross 1 — 
Tenderly, as 'twere a rose. 



38 LYRICS. 

Plucketh it and saith, " Po' Jo' ! "— 
Plucketh e'en a bunch thereof, 
Presseth it, with words of love, 
Words of pity and of love, 
To her bosom — leaves it there, 
Quivering with its tender stir. 
As it were a posy rare 
Sent by one that loveth her. 
Whispereth in rhythm low. 
Words of pity and of love, 
Bendeth trembling lips above, 
Kisseth it, and saith, ''Po' Jo\''' 
While from out the neighboring tree 
Comes in shrillest ecstasy, 

Jo-re-ter, jo-re-tei% jo-re-ter^ jo-reef 

Po' Jo' ! 
Scorn' d by all within thy range. 
Ne'er before on thee did dote 
Maiden eyes thus lingeringly. 
Cattle spurn thee — even the goat 
Turns his choiceless nose from thee. 
(Greediest weeder of the grange !) 
At thee Fve heard the farmer swear, 
Tangling in his busy share ; 
Thee the gardener's daughter scold, 
Crept into her flower-fold— 
Nuisance ! everywhere he's found ! 
Slay him ! cumbereth he the ground ! 
Made to fall beneath the hoe, 
And yet — she kisseth him, Po' Jo' ! 



LYRICS. 39 

And who can tell if this Ishmael 
Of the woods she so caresseth, 
In her heart may not be one warm spot 
For me, when mine confesseth — 
Slowly homeward wending we ? — 

Jo-re-ter, jo-re-ter, jo-re-ter^ jo-ree ! 

MARIPOSA. 

The butterfly is in Spanish " Mariposa." The derivation of 
the word is curious, if it may be trusted, and one who has a 
right to be heard in the matter (Mahn Elymol. Forschengen, 
page 9) advances it with confidence. Nothing in the butterfly 
is so striking as thealternationsof restlessness when it is on the 
wing, and then of perfect quiet when it has lighted. He 
divides the word thus, Mart Posa or " Sea " and " Rest," first 
the restless agitation of the sea, and this presently exchanged 
for perfect repose, and finds here a key to the explanation of a 
word which has hitherto perplexed all etymologists. — Trench, 
On the Study of Words. 

CTILL your winglet, Mariposa ! 

Flitting, flutt'ring Mariposa ! 
Some one told me that the first 
Butterfly that I saw burst 
Out its silky chrysalis 
I would have a dress like his. 
Still your winglet, that I may 
Of your tinsel coat survey 
Well the pattern o'er and o'er. 
Sure was never seen afore 
Such a glorious mantellette ! — 
All befreakt with gold and jet, 
Ruby-red and emerald green, 



40 LYRICS. 

Amber-ochre, sapphirine, 
Satiny and velveteen — 
With two ample owlet eyes, 
Of that hue that monarchs prize, 
A-peering out Minerva-wise. 
Why ! if I like that were dight 
Folks were awe-struck at the sight. 
Admiring on what mundane mission 
Jove had sent this iris-vision. 

Still your winglet, Mariposa ! 

Gladsome, giddy Mariposa ! — 

Had not thought you quite so simple ! — 

There ! I've caught you 'neath my wimple. 

Now, as low I bend mine ear. 

Tell me. Flora's minion, where 

All daylong you've been a-flying — 

Into what soft secrets prying. 

As you woo'd a sip of honey 

Of yon blushing-red Peony, 

Spied you her forbidden lover 

Crouching near her in the clover? 
— ^When you kist the Morning Glory, 

Did she tell you her heart-story — 

Why it is she dies so soon — 

Why can never see the moon? 
— Did the violet tell you how 

Once she was as white as snow. 

Till a ruthless Cupid's dart 

Fell and pierced her to the heart, 

That the blood did freely pour, 



LYRICS. 41 

Purpling her forevermore ? 
Wherefore maidens did, to shame her 
Love-in-idleness rename her — 
Whence it is, e'en to this day- 
She doth hang her head alway. 

Did pale Hyacinth recite 
His sad legend ? how he fell 
Neath Apollo's fatal quoit — 
Whom Apollo lov'd so well ! — 
That the sweet Laconian youth 
All his guileless blood did spill, 
Whence to mark Apollo's ruth. 
Sprang a waxen snow-white bloom — 
Emblem meet for friendship's tomb 
-Did Calypso Borealis 
Lure you to her iris palace. 
Hold you there with honeyed kisses. 
As the Ogygian nymph, Ulysses — • 
Pledg'd him immortality 
If beside her he would stay. 
But the Trojan answer'd, Nay ! — 
Loyal to Penelope, 
True to proud Icarius' daughter ; 
Home-returning then, he caught her 
Weaving still Laertes' shroud. 
Warding off the amorous crowd. 

When the garden-poppy spread 
Out for you her plushy bed. 
All so crimson, all so cozy, 
Can you not to wax so dozy 



42 LYRICS. 

That you reason' d it were best to 
Stop here for a brief siesta ? — 
Which e'en until moonrise lasted — 
Several golden hours wasted ! 
Had you been less idiotic 
You had shunn'd this snare narcotic. 
Did you learn the cause mysterious 
Why the sweet Night-blooming Cereus 
Shuts her treasure from the light, 
Opes it to the thieving night ? 
— ^Did the Flaxinella bright 
With its ignis fatuus lure you — 
Only with brown dust to shower you ! 

Tell me why sweet Eglantere, 

With her golden heart laid bare, 

And her simple bib-and-tucker, 

Shows such temper when you pluck her 

While the city Jacqueminots, 

With their frills and furbelows, 

And their artificial blushing, 

And their hearts all gone to ruching, 

Yield smooth arms when lovers woo. 

Simply and without ado. 

If you keep company with the shoddy. 
Haply hoary Polopody, 
Darwin's pet, "the old fop fern," 
Smirked you to a waltzing turn. 
(Are his jewels really paste ?) 
— Ah ! saw you that maiden chaste. 
Sad-eyed Anemone, who never, 



43 



Since jealous Flora banished Zephyr, 
Opes her eyes, except, alas, 
To rudely-blasting Boreas ? — 
Did your wing so gently hover 
O'er her, teasing Mariposa, 
That she fancied her lost lover 
Had come back and did unclose her 
Tear-pink eyelids and lay bare 
Her conscious heart ? — While you, I dare 
Say (confess now !), fled to flirt 
With Black-eyed Susan malipert — 
Or haply down the stream did dart 
To take a sail with Floating Heart, 
Or walked into the parlor-bower 
Or the crafty Spider Flower 
(Served you right !), or got your wings 
Full of Prickly Cactus stings. 

When the Thistledown you blow. 
Just so many hairs as cling. 
By that number will you know 
What the year your fate will bring ? 

Now, what o' the weather ? Could you tell 
From ''Shepherd's Weatherglass," Pimper- 
Did you count the jewels rare [nel? 

Of turquoise-beaded Juniper? — 
Woodbine, Meadowrue and Laurel, 
Toadflax, Mayweed and Sheep Sorrel, 
Boasting Bladder-Champion — 
Tell me something of each one 
Cyprus Serge and Rattlebox, 



44 LYRICS. 

Fever-few and Gill and Phlox, 
Yellow Primrose, Daffodowndilly, 
Jamestown Weed, and Butterfly Lily, 
Devil's Footstool, Cupid's Quiver, 
Lady Fingers, Live-for-ever, 
Scented Blue-gurls, Bittersweet, 
Motherwort and Bouncing Bet, 
Beechdrops, Stargrass, Golden Club, 
Mouse- ear' d Chickweed, and Sweetshrub 
Tansy, Scouring Rush — and O ! 
I trust you did not slight Pd' Jo'. 

Still your winglet, Mariposa, 
Poor imprison' d Mariposa ! 
What I do is from conviction. 
From an artist's sense of duty — 
Ah ! but you would be a beauty 
In my butterfly collection. 
Know, I have a gilded frame, 
Wherein a hundred of your name 
(Mind you ! this is just between us) — 
Aye, a hundred of your genus. 
Are ranged around, as on a rack. 
Each with a pin stuck thro' his back 
(Tho' that was put there just to keep 
Him in his place — he fell asleep 
Steep' d in a drop of chloroform — 
I could not do him lingering harm). 
But not an one in all is there 
With you in beauty can compare ; 
And in the centre will I pin you, 



LYRICS. 46 

And O ! the glory I will win you. 

For folks will flock from far and near 

To see you, Mariposa dear, 

And, seeing you, will ne'er forget 

To sing your praise. And yet — and yet — 

Somehow I have no heart to-day 

To do it. What is fame to thee? 

Man alone, with earth-blind eyes, 

Fancies, when beyond the skies, 

Bliss-embosom' d, angel-crown' d, 

Glory's clarion's hollow sound 

Can pierce the ethereal vault profound 

And into his heart convey 

Joyance, e'en thro' Heaven's day. 

mortal thought !— away ! away ! 
Sweet, idle, giddy, happy thing ! — 

1 love thee best upon the wing. 

I love thee well, for thou dost bring 
Soft thoughts of first-love and of spring. 

But mind you, sweet one ! do not tell 

A single floweret in the dell 

About that cruel, gilded frame — 

They might not love me quite the same-^ 

They might despise me — and then, O ! 

Where for a true friend could I go? 

Away ! away ! sweet butterfly ! — 
What ! Mariposa ! dost thou lie 
So still ? The wimple's lifted— see ! — 
Thou' rt free again. — Ah! could it be 
I had my hand too closely press' d — 



46 



I thought the wimple let in air, 
''Mart,'" ''posa"" **sea" and "rest" — 
^' Fosa,'' ''mart,'' — "posa" there ! 

REJECTED. 

TlfARM from the heart, one winter's morn, 

I pour'd a tender-cadenc'd song. 
As mothers over their first-born 
I doting o'er it hung. 

I watch'd each little cunning turn 
And thought, '' Ah, surely never yet 
(So hearts with mother -rapture burn) 
Were sweeter verses set.'' 

And with a glowing mother-pride 
(Which is not selfishness, because 
It loses self in love) I sighed 
For all the world's applause. 

So one bright morn in early spring 
(Green as its grass the memory!) 
My little song went journeying 
Toward its destiny. 

I watch'd each mail with fluttering heart, 
And when ''Rejected" came in brief, 
There mixed with disappointment's smart 
A sigh of deep relief. 

Thus mother-birds watch fledglings test 
Their callow wings, and half in pain, 
And half in joy, into the nest 
Receive them back again. 



LYRICS. 47 

Thou wast too weak — thou could' st not soar, 
My fledghng ! but to me thou'rt bless'd, 
And I but love thee all the more 
Because thou can'st not quit the nest. 

HEAVEN'S FLOOR. 

T CANNOT dream that Heaven's floor 

Is laid with gems or gold, 
For one would be to the angel's feet 
Too hard and one too cold ; 
But O, I fancy that Heaven's floor 
Is carpeted with flowers, 
More beautiful, if they could be more, 
And sweeter than even ours. 

The violet I know is there, 
In soft profusion sown — 
Ah ! it were Heaven enough for me 
Were violets there alone, — 
The violet to the woodland dear, 
The springtime's minion care, 
Unchang'd, save as in springtime here 
It blooms perennial there. 

For I believe that even God 

Could not select a hue 

More meet to brighten heavenly sod 

Than our own violets blue ; 

And I believe that even God 

A scent could not distill 

More meet to sweeten heavenly sod 

Than our own violet's smell. 



48 LYRICS. 

The lilac and the heliotrope, 

The pansy and the pink, 

And all the beauteous buds that ope 

There clusteringly link 

About the innumerous golden founts 

And heavenly nectar drink 

And all the heavenly tapestry 

With various patterns prink. 

Nay ! I cannot dream that Heaven's floor 

Is laid with gems or gold, 

For one would be to the angel's feet 

Too hard, and one too cold ; 

But O, I fancy that Heaven's floor 

Is carpeted with flowers. 

More beautiful, if they could be more, 

And sweeter than even ours. 

AT SUNSET. 

TRIS hath emptied 

Her boxful of dyes 
Pell-mell into 
The Western skies. 
Lo ! what a passion 
Of crimson and blue — 
Patches of cameo 
Shimmering thro' — 
Long cold strata 
Of saffron sheen — 
Pillows of eiderdown 
Bulging between — 
Meet for the slumber 
Of seraphs, I ween. 



49 



Come with me, darling ! — 
Fling down your book — 
Turn to the westward — 
Hush, and look ! 

Which of those tints 

Would I choose for a dress ? 

Really, 'tis hard 

To select, I confess. 

You know, like the violets, 

I'm partial to blue — 

Yes, yes, I would choose 

That ineffable hue 

The poets call azure — 

Come now, wouldn't you ? 

I'm sure it was caught 

From an angel's eyes 

One time as she flutter'd 

Down from the skies — 

And that red from her lips ! — 

And that white from her wings !- 

And that gold from her crown — 

Or her harpsichord strings ! — 

And O ! that ineffable 

Cameo-flush 

Was snatch 'd from her — 

Darling, do angels bhish ? 

But there ! don't answer me — 

Look, and hush. 



50 LYRICS. 

SPRINGSONG. 

T LOVE you. I know it 
Because the birds sing 

Gladlier this springtime 

Than last time o' spring ; 

The scent of the lilac 

That blooms at my door 

Is sweeter and subtler 

Than ever before. 

The breezes are balmier 

That come from the dell, 

And the grasses are greener 

That carpet the fell. 

The roses are redder, 

The bluebells are bluer, 

The white of the lily 

More virginly pure, 

The pansy more royal. 

The jonquil more yellow, 

The sunset more gorgeous, 

The moonbeam more mellow. 
By the green earth around you, the blue skies above 

you, 
I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you. 

II. 

You love me. I know it 
Because in your sight 
The sun might go out 
And I should not lack light, 
And e'en if it were to, 
Not leaving a spark, 



LYRICS. 51 

I could feel my way to 

Your true heart in the dark. 

You love me. I know it 

Because in my breast 

In your absence there dwells 

A delicious unrest — 

Which tho' to-day piercing 

Exquisitely keen, 

I would not exchange 

For the crown of a queen, 

The bay of a Sappho, 

The robe of a Dean — 

Nor for all the raised splendors 

The oceans between. 
By the green world around me, the blue skies above me, 
You love me, you love me, you love me, you love me. 

LOVE'S FAITH. 

TF one should come and tell me that the birds 

Had lost their voices ; that the flowers no more 
Gave forth soft odors ; that for lack of dew 
The grass blades droopt at dawntime ; that the pearls 
Had left the oceans bed, the sands its shore ; 
That snow from winter had obtain'd divorce 
And lay in summer's passionate embrace ; 
That frost and fruitage had congenial grown ; 
That the " Lost Sister " of the Pleiades 
Had reappeared in Taurus ; that the sun 
Had wheel'd his golden chariot to the North- 
I might believe him. But if one should come 
And tell me you were false — why, I should stand 
With folded arms and dart through him a glance 



52 LYRICS. 

So keenly edg'd with scornful disbelief, 
That back he would recoil, like April clouds 
Before the advancing sun, and call upon 
The mantle of his shame to cover him. 

A DAY IN WINTER. 

UOW could one live thro' a day like this, 

Sweet ! were one not with his books, or in love ? 
I am both — I am happy — with that dear bliss 
Of lovers who have no faith to prove, 
Of readers who have no task for heeding, 
But read from the sheer sweet love of reading. 

The day is dead, and the clouds hang low. 
And the winds are weeping a dirge — what tho' ? 
My life is full — in my heart I know 
'Tis only distance keepeth the kiss 

On thy lips from mine, 

On my lips from thine. 
No task to heed, no faith to prove, — 
Ah ! how could one live thro' a day like this, 
Sweet ! were not one with his books or in love. 

APART. 

rjUT on a leafless prairie, where 

No song of bird makes glad the air. 
No hue of flower brings to the eyes 
Outward glimpse of Paradise — 
A thousand miles and a half away 
My Lady is in love to-day. 

All thro' her heart are joy-bells ringing. 
All thro' her mind sweet fancies swinging, 



LYRICS. 53 

All thro' her soul are skylarks singing, 

For every new southwind is bringing 

Tidings glad of her true lover, 

And kisses bridge tlie distance over. 

Lips to lips and heart to heart, 

A thousand miles and a half apart. 

MOONRISE SERENADE. 

lyrOONRISE. And a mellow sheen 

All the slumbrous hills is steeping. 
Wake, my sweet one, nor be sleeping 
Thro' sweet Cynthia's softest phaze — 
Wake and rise and swiftly glide 
To thy lattice, sweet, for O ! 
One who wooes thee for his bride 
Sigheth here below. 

I love thee, I love thee, 
My heart, I must confess, 
Can no more love thee more 
Than it can love thee less. 

Moonrise. Thro' the casem.ent-blind 
Lo, the golden lovelight streaming — 
Lady, lady, past my dreaming. 
Thou art kind, most kind. 

He who heard thy garment glide 
Swiftly o'er the happy floor. 
He who woo'd thee for his bride 
Sigheth now no more. 

I love thee, I love thee, 
My heart, O happiness ! 
Can never love thee more, 
Need never love thee less. 



54 LYRICS. 

HER WORDS. 
TF her silence is golden, 

What then are her words ? 

Something purer than gold, 
Something sweeter than music of birds 
Longtime withholden. 

Diamonds ? Nay I diamonds are glittering and cold. 
Rubies ? Nay I rubies are brilliant and bold. 
Opals ? Nay ! opals are fickle, of old. 

What then are her words, 

Since her silence is golden ? 

Something purer than gold, 
Something than diamonds less glitt'ring and cold, 
Something than rubies less briUiant and bold. 
Than opals, more true — something not to be told 

Are her words. 
Something safe down in the heart to enfold — 
Something sweeter than music of birds 

Longtime withholden. 

HER KISSES. 

PENTLY as the mists of even 

On the crystal casement settle. 
Gently as the dews of heaven 
Cluster round the rose's petal, 
Softly as the harvest moonbeam 
Thro' the midnight stillness slips, 
Falls the kiss of her who loves me 
On my cheek and on my lips. 

Dearer than the blue to heaven, 
Than the red unto the rose is. 



LYRICS. 55 

Dearer than the stars to even, 
Than the perfume to the posies, 
Precious as the rose to June-time, 
As the Sabbath to the week, 
Is the kiss of her who loves me 
FaUing on my hps and cheek. 

A MISSION OF CHARITY. 

"TWAS at the close of a sultry day 

That foretaste of June had brought to May. 
With ruthless eye the faihng sun 
Glanced askance at the havoc he'd done : 
For the buff-hearted daisies that sprinkled the field 
With joyance that morning had sicken'd and reel'd, 
Dazed by the glare of his pitiless glance, 
And the leaves on the trees had forgotten to dance, 
But hung mouse-still, and gazed below 
Where the runlet was almost too lazy to flow. 

And a sick girl lay in her dying chair 
And prayed for a breath of evening air 
To enter her casement and fan her cheek 
Where consumption fed with envenom'd beak. 
" O, that a breeze would this way wing 
And ease to my raging temples bring," 
She sigh'd. 

And away in his western cave 
Far, far over the ocean wave, 
A soft-voic'd Zephyr, ^olus' child, 
Gentle of heart, and brave as mild. 
Heard this wail, and he said to himself, 
** Now, if a little sylph-like elf 
Like me might answer that plaintive cry, 



56 LYRICS. 

I'd slip thro' a chink, and away I'd fly ! — 
And why not I ?" — as the voice was heard 
A second time. So, with never a word. 
On a sweet mission of charity bent, 
He sHpt thro' a chink and away he went ! 

Now a ship was due o'er the sea that night, 

But just ere the harbor loom'd in sight, 

The wind at her mast began to fail 

And flat and limp hung her every sail, 

And the captain on the foredeck trod, 

With his hands to his brow and he said, " My God ! 

Before I can reach her my child will die." 

Just then the Zephyr came skimming by — 

He heard this wail, in a happy hour, 

And swell' d to the utmost in his power. 

" What little I can do shall be done," — 

And he lodg'd in the mast, and the ship moved on — 

Till safe at last into harbor steer' d — 

Then he slipt from the sail and leeward veered. 

Now over the fields as he chances to pass 

He lightly breathes on the blades of grass — 

They nod their heads with conscious thanks 

And toss their arms in a thousand pranks. 

He lifts the daisies out of their trance 

And sprays them with dews till their bright eyes dance. 

He sets the leaves on the trees a- quiver, 

And hastens the runlet on to the river, — 

And all this time he is speeding to where 

The sick girl lies in her dying chair. 

— Now he enters the casement in time to see 

Two strong arms clasp her tenderly — 



LYRICS. 57 

" My Father ! my Father ! " " My darHng girl ! " 
And the Zephyr shps in and lifts a curl, 
A golden curl, from a crimson pool, 
And he kisses the raging temples cool, 
And he slips the soul from the smiling clay 
And unto an angel bears it away. 

Children, this carries a lesson for you — 

See the good even a Zephyr can do. 

He went on an humble mission bent, 

But on doing good were his thoughts intent. 

And see what Providence put in his path : 

He reviv'd the daisy with gentle dew-bath, 

He gladden'd the leaflet, he dimpled the water, 

He claspt to the heart of his dying daughter 

A fond old man — and, above all this, 

He wafted a soul to the chmes of bliss. 

BLIND TOM. 

I. 

UUSH ! hearken ! 'tis the tinkling of an elfland 

tambourine, 
A tintinnabulary sweep of faerie finger-tips. 
— Now it soars in silver treble — now it sinks and, 

diving, dips 
Down to the very bottom of the deeps of sound, 
I ween. 

Hear it bound and hasten 
Down its diapason, 
Like a mighty current down a deep ravine ; 
Upward lightly tripping, 
Now, like children skipping, 
Tripping, skipping, slipping o'er a bowling-green. 



58 LYRICS. 

'Tis ^olus sighing hither, 
Flutt'ring softly as a feather 

From the hovering wing of Nox. 
All my senses he entices 
With his oriental spices [locks. 

As his soft mesmeric fingers wandlike overpass my 
Drinking in his breath narcotic, 
Yielding to his touch hypnotic, 
I am sinking — I am drifting — 1 have reached the 
Lethe docks. 

II. 

Was I sleeping ? — 
Some one weeping 
From the cypress hedge is creeping — 
'Tis some isolated spirit seeking redress for its wrongs. 
— Nay ! some madman — hear the gnashing 
Of his teeth, and see the flashing 
Of his eyes! — some madman, certes,whohaswrench*d 
his prison-thongs. 

Hist how his uncanny laughter 
Echoes from each startled rafter — 

Now, as if possess'd of legions from infernal regions, he 
Shrieking goes around the gable, 
Like the banshee in the fable. 

With a wierd reiteration of an eldritch ecstasy. 

Was I dreaming ? 

Moonlight streaming 
O'er me sets my opal gleaming — [me free — 
'Tis some mystic incantation from that spell hath set 

All is calm and still and sober 

As a moonbeam in October — [sea. 

As a midnight moonbeam resting on a mid-October 



59 



III. 

Hurrah ! make room for Jumbo ! — You gamins ! clear 

the track there ! 
There's a cage of mad hyenas — I say ! you'd best 
step back there ! 

Tumpty ! tumpty, here he comes ! — 
Humpty Dumpty, with his thumbs 

Stuck aside his nose. 
— There's a lady on a chariot 
With a snake (how can she carry it !) 
Wound from head to toes. 
Whick-whack ! goes the whip of the ring-master. 
Round, round go the ponies — faster — faster ! 
See her whirl ! — 
The circus-girl, 
Round and round in giddy gyres. 
Thro' the ring 
Watch her spring ! — 
A salamander wreathed in fires. 
Now the clown 
Assists her down. 
Does he smile, or does he frown ? 
Hip ! hurrah ! stand aback ! 
Humpty's turn now — clear the track ! 
Whick-whack ! goes the whip of the ring-master — 
Round, round goes old Humpty — faster — faster — 
See him stumble, 
Watch him tumble ! — 
In the sawdust roll and fumble ! 
Now '\\Q faces his disaster — 

Is he proud, or is he humble ? 
Does he grin, or does he grumble ? 



60 LYRICS. 

Hush ! look up, and still your laughter, 
Shut your eyes, and hold your breath ! — 
There's a woman from the rafter 
(Samson nerve her I 
God preserve her !) 
Hanging, dangling by her teeth I 

IV. 

'Tis a burial in mid-ocean 

In midwinter. With emotion 

Round the corpse the crew are crowding, 

Round the corpse that they are shrouding 

In the snowy winding-sheet. 
'Tis the priest that they are shrouding 

In the snowy winding-sheet. 
This one chants Ave Marias, 
That one counts her beads by tears, 
Some embalm the silver hairs, 

Others kneel and kiss the feet. 
One — perhaps his mother — tries 
To pray aloud — but drops her eyes, 
And lifts her empty arms aloft in voiceless agony. 

— Hush I O hearken I Do I dream? 

Have I cross' d the Jordan stream ? 

Seraph voices, mingling soft. 

Bear my ravished spirit aloft — 

Upward, upward to the sky. 
I close mine eyes — a sense of Heaven steals o'er me. 
Silence profound a moment — then a thunder 
Of wild applause. And lo ! that sable wonder. 
Blind Tom, the genius, sits and blinks before me. 



LYRICS. 61 

THE DEAD WORKER. 

pOOR hands ! fold them over her breast — 

So hard, so brown, so cold — 
They have done their work and have won their rest, 
Tho' they won no gold. 

Theirs Avas a battle for bread, 

How they struggled and grappled and bled I 

Poor hands ! — lift them gently, for they 
Once lay in a mother's breast, 
All dimpled and pink, and cosily 
As birds in a nest. 

And a mother's heart once leapt 

As into her bosom they crept. 

Poor hands ! they have never a ring, 

But a mark where a ring has been — 

It was all that she had to remind her of spring, 

But, to save them from sin, 

She pawn'd it — and so much of gold 

Never again did they hold. 

Poor hands ! give them flowers to carry 

Down into the grave, for they 

Were too work-worn and too world-weary 

To pause by the way 

And pluck them. Bring hUes and roses 
And fill the stiff fingers with posies. 

Poor feet ! when the way was high 

And stony and nettle-strewn. 

We pass'd them by with never a sigh 

For the blood-prints under the moon. 

Now that the life-blood is froze, 
Bring the warm gaiters and hose. 



62 LYRICS. 

Poor eyes ! close them to — how they stare ! 
— Nay ! place no gold on that brow — 
It was lack of that made the furrows there — 
She needs none now. 

She goes to a mansion whose floor 

Is paved Avith the costliest ore. 

Poor eyes ! no leisure they had 

To gaze up into the sky 

And see if 'twas blue, as the poets said — 

But now they see ; 

To-day they are not so dim 

But that they have open'd on Him. 

UNDER VENUS. 
T TNDER the sun 

There is never a blessing for which I thank 
Heaven 
As the power to love you to me has been given — 
Never an one. 

Fate may deny me 

The luxury of sailing behind dappled greys 
In a plush-cushion'd coach, and in ten thousand ways, 
Fortune may try me. 

But who shall dare clip 

The wings of my bliss when I think of the day 
My cheek grew as red as a rosebush in May 

'Neath the warmth of your lip. 
Gold, gaudy gold ! 

If great glistering heaps lay piled at my feet, 
I would not loose your warm hand to garner them, 
Sweet ! 

— And let it grow cold. 



LYRICS. 63 

Fame, bubble fame ! 

The hill-tops might clarion me unto the skies, 
And the skies echo back, and I'd not hft mine eyes — 
But when you breathe my name — 

Life is too fleet ! 

The costliest sceptre that sparkles, mine own, 
Could never allure me to rise to its throne 
From mine at your feet. 

Distance between us 

May widen with years, but while the blue sky 
Arches over us, darling, I'll love you, for I 
Was born under Venus. 



LOVE AND FAME. 

TF I might focus the combined power 
Of all the poets, lens-like, on this hour, 
And pour this page along 
A lofty epic song 
That with immortal laurels would mine envied name 

endower. 
And 'round me all the garner'd wealth of all the 

nations shower ; 
And if I might, with like endeavor, sing 
A simple love-lay that to thee would bring 
Knowledge of what thou art 
Unto my life and heart, — 
Unwavering would I seize the lyre and brush the 

Euterpean string, 
And Calliope's trumpet to the four winds would I 
fling. 



64 



LOVE HYMN. 

CHINE, shine, O Sun ! your ample urn 

With all its golden beams o'erturii, 
Till turret-top and tree-top burn 
With amber glory. 
Sing, sing, ye birds ! with quavering trill 
The palpitating ether fill, 
Till every quivering leaflet thrill 
With my glad story. 
Yes, tune your merriest roundelay. 
For O ! my love will come to-day. 

Blow, blow, ye breezes ! thro' the dell — 

Ye seaside zephyrs ! seek the fell 

And there my happy secret tell 

To streams and flowers. 

Play, play, ye fountains ! send on high 

Your diamonds till they dint the sky, 

And then rebound resiliently 

In rainbow showers. 
Yes, toss on high your diamond-spray, 
For O ! my love will come to-day. 

Bloom, bloom, ye flowers ! my secret dear 
Woo from the breezes, then lay bare 
Your hearts till all the conscious air 

Is perfume-laden. 
Dance, dance, ye brooklets ! skip and dance. 
Over your pebbles glint and glance — 
To see you ne'er again may chance 
So happy a maiden. 
Yes, o'er your pebbles glint and play, 
For O ! my love will come to-day. 



LYRICS. 65 

And ye, O guardian seraphim ! 

Who Hstening lean o'er Heaven's rim, 

Rejoice! for even to the brim 
My cup is full. 

Thro' Heaven's unbounded latitude 

Swell anthems of her gratitude 

Who soon will taste beatitude 
Ineffable, 
That saints who pity mortals may 
Rejoice when comes my love to-day. 

MY CUP. 

'AiriTH the hand I have held to my heartbeat so oft 

To prove that 'twas steady and strong, 
She trac'd on a cup, out of tints rich and soft, 

A little bird hopping along, 

The red holly-berries among. 

She brimm'd it with love-drops press'd warm from her 
And as a slight memory-boon [heart, 

Bestow'd it upon me, — and now I would part, 
Should angels themselves importune. 
With anything earthly more soon. 

It is one of the few things that to me belong ; 

That I claim for my own, very own. 
And I take out a kiss when I put in a song, 

Lest haply its sweets overrun — 

A new one for every new sun. 

Every blossom, I ween, on its nectar hath fed 
In the arms of the breezes that rocks, 

From the gay gladiolus of amber-freakt red 
That luxury rear'd in a box 
To the delicate-wove ladysmocks. 



bb LYRICS. 

Happy emblem of life ! may her cup ever be — 
'Tis my wish and my prayer and my trust — 
As graceful, as brimming with sweetness, 

thee, 
And when be shatter'd it to dust, 
As all things terrestrial must, 
May her unfetter' d soul like thy fragrance arise 
And float as an incense of prayer to the skies. 

TO A WHITE ROSE. 

T WOULD the one I love might gaze with me 

Adown into thy bosom's virgin depths, 
O pure-white rose ! I would that I might place 
A loving arm about her yielding waist 
And draw her down until her eyes, with mine, 
Were on a level with thy modest height, 
That she might drink with me thy pureness in, 
And feel with me the influence it imparts. 

Mute overhead the starry night hangs rapt, 
And gloats on thee with all its myriad eyes. 
Not even a sylph-like zephyr dares to stir, 
Except a-tiptoe and with bated breath. 
In tender reverence of thy spotlessness. 
The silver-throated warbler of the skies, 
Who all day long, to serenade the stars 
Behind their sheeny curtains snug-ensconc'd, 
Poured forth a tender-cadenc'd roundelay, 
Now floods the night with melody, to coax 
The moon-queen, on her fortnight's furlough off 
Amongst the empyrean wilds, back to her throne, 
Amidst the allegianced stars, that she may throw 
A silver veil upon thy bride-like brow. 



67 



Lo ! where the Dian of the marble font 
Bends forward to admire thy chastity, 
While yonder broad Caladium shields thee from 
The pelting of the o'er-fond fountain spray, 
Not twenty paces off, 
Thy red, red sister-rose holds social sway. 
Belle of the garden, see her nod and smile 
And toss the enticing kiss, and woo about 
Her feet a coterie of worshippers. 
I lay my grateful tribute at her shrine. 
God made her, too — she has a heart of gold 
Beneath her fashionable plush — her breath 
Is fragrant with delicious compliments, 
(More oft deserved than else) called flattery 
By the less courteous and less beautiful. 
She cannot help her beauty — 'twas God's gift. 
She wins a hundred eyes and hearts; while thou, 
O pure-white rose, win'st but one poet's soul. 
Yon vestal lily holds herself aloof, 
As tho' to say, I'll hold the torch for thee, 
But come not near me with thine earthly touch. 
Her I admire, too, at a distance. God 
Makes every kind of flower to breathe His praise 
A different way. But thou, O human-sweet! 
O heavenly-pure! thou winnest human souls 
To heavenly purposes — not by lofty aims — 
By simply being what thou art — thyself. 

Let others toil and spin, let others strive — 
Thy presence serves ; for all who enter there 
Are purified, uplifted, and made wise 
In thy simplicity. Pure womanhood, 
God's last achievement, thou dost typify. 



68 LYRICS. 

How can I thank thee for this perfect hour ! 
When thou hast let me look into thine heart 
And learn the secret of thine influence. 
O that my pen might bless the world therewith, 
Even as thou blesseth me, my pure-white Rose. 



VIOLET. 

ly/TY lady gave me a ribbon red. 

All on a wintry day so bleak. 
" Tie it about your throat,'' she said, 

Knot it close to your pale, wan cheek. 
Life is glad, and grieving is sin ; 
Earth's happy ones ai'e the ones who win^ 

And so I carried my ribbon red 

Preciously home to my dear song-bower ; 
I knotted it 'round my throat, as she said, 

And there it nestled this very hour, 
Close, so close to my pale, wan cheek, 
I could all but hear it breathe and speak : 
" Life is glad, atid grievi^ig is sin; 
Earth^s happy ones are the ones who win.** 

But there as I sat, there came to me 
Out of the past, a memory — 
A sad-eyed maiden, tender and true, 
With a packet of letters tied all in blue. 
I looked on the red, I looked on the blue, 
Far better be dead than to be untrue ! 
" Then choose," said a voice, " the violet, 
For here the red and the blue have met." 



LYRICS. 69 

AN OLD VALENTINE. 

WHAT did God make kisses for? 

For the self- same reason 
That He made the birds and flowers 

Sing and blow in season. 
Kisses, dearest — once again — 
Let them sprinkle, let them rain. 

Some day, under kinder skies, 

When the mists are risen, 
Thou and I in Paradise, 

Walking fields elysian, 
Kisses, dearest, hke to these. 
Ne'er shall cease, ne'er shall cease. 

In the happy meanwhile, love, 

Howsoe'er disparted. 
Thou and I in time's despite. 

Shall be joyous-hearted. 
Kisses, dearest, memory kisses — 
This our bliss is, this our bliss is. 

"WERE HER KISSES LESS RARE." 

WERE her kisses less rare 
Perhaps I would care 

For them less. 
Were her hand's tender pressure 
A gift at my pleasure, 

'Twere valued at — yes. 

Something less. 

There's a rose in my garden smiles all the year thro'; 
Its prettiness wearies me soon. 



70 LYRICS. 

I kiss it — it smiles ; I drop it — it smiles ; 
It smiles whatsoe'er I may do. 
There's another that blushes at every full moon, 
Which somewhat beguiles. 
It teases me, pleases me. 
Never quite seizes me, 

Never quite fills me, as one 
That dropped, angel-wise, 
From unreckoned skies. 
Held me once to its heart — 
And was gone ! 

THE SONG OF THE STAR JASMINE. 

WITHIN the Vale of Circumstance 

Two deadly foes, one dead of night, 
Cross'd shadows in the dim starlight, 
Cross'd shadows in the dim starlight. 
Or was it Providence, or chance ? 

" Thy name ! who durst perturb my way,'' 
Called one who journey'd toward the stars, 

" Keep thee behind thy prison-bars. 
Keep thee behind thy prison-bars ! — 
Nor think Ambition's flight to stay." 

" Cross not my threshold, haughty dame. 
In thy vain journey toward the stars, 
Nor mock my precious prison-bars. 
Nor mock my precious prison-bars. 
Humility my lowly name." 

Or was it Providence or chance ? 
Two deadly foes, one dead of night, 



LYRICS. 71 

Lay dead beneath the dim starlight, 
Lay dead beneath the dim starhght, 
Within the vale of circumstance. 

And as by way of compromise, 
From out the ashes of the two, 
Lo I, a pale Star Jasmine grew, 
Who ever hug earth's prison-bars, 
Who ever hug earth's prison-bars, 
Yet ever strive toward the skies. 

THE POET AND THE MOTH. 

TN contemplation lost, a poet sits, 

His eye turn'd westward. Thro' the lattice comes 
The last faint-lingering breath the gloaming sigh'd 
When thro' her parti-tinted veil of sheen 
She saw the round- fac'd herald of her doom 
Smiling triumphant o'er the opposing hills. 
Within the twirling texture of his brain 
A winged poem lies enmesh'd: he fain 
Would, yet would not, cage it for aye in words, 
Ere haply it escape and go the way 
^real it came, unlocalized. — 
(For the poet's first impulse is to give 
Freely of what to him is freely given) — 
And yet 'twas passing sweet to hold it there. 
With dews of heaven fresh upon its wings, 
A secret visitant, — With sudden turn 
He lights the lamp, and o'er the inviting page 
Pours out his mood — when lo ! a guileless moth. 
With tinsel wings, gold-dusted, wilder'd by 
The dazzle of the light that lur'd it in. 
Falls blinded o'er the moisty page, and leaves 



72 LYRICS. 

Athwart it, where his winglets trail, a blot 
Big and uncouth. The poet lifts his hand. 
Vexation knits his brow — with one true aim 
Down comes his ruthless fist, — A tiny heap 
Of powder'd tinsel meets his softening eye. 
He drops the pen. The poem has escaped. 



AFTER-PEACE. 

"\'\7"HEN he was here a sharp remorse 

Shot ofttimes thro' the bosom's core, 
But it was still'd forevermore 
When thro' the gates they bore his corpse. 

His nature, cast in nobler mold 
Than ours, and divinelier-strung, 
With our ungentleness was stung 
When loving blame wax'd overbold 

To shapen his unworldliness 
Subservient to our worldly ends. 
We who were sent to be his friends 
Seem'd oftenest to bring distress. 

And oft we said, When he is dead, 
Remorse, with keenlier-temper'd knife, 
Will pierce thro' all our after life 
For this thing said, that left unsaid. 

But now that death hath brought surcease 
Of toil, and rais'd him to his sphere. 
We feel he knows we lov'd him here — 
He understands — and we're at peace. 



73 



SWEET-SHRUBBING. 

MY loves and I sweet-shrubbing went 

All on a balmy April day. 
Three summers they — and I ? — ah me ! 

What recketh time when the heart is gay ? 

At first my loves were coy and shy, 

As new-unprisoned birdlings are — 

Now leap and fly thro' the under-sky, 

Where every blossom seemeth a star ! 

Clustering bluets, Pleiades-white, 

Wild strawberry blossoms as yellow as Venus- 
And O ! the laughter following after 

We pluck them and share them between us. 

O'er dale and dune, right valiantly, 

Thro' many a brambleberry toil. 
We wend our way till close of day, 

When lo ! appeareth the purple spoil. 

We knew it first by the air around, 

Ere down in the marsh we glimps'd it. See ! 
A great fresh clump ! — and over they jump 

Into the cool green sedge with me. 

And never an Israelite brought back 

From the Promised Land his Eshcol wonder 

With head more proud than those we bow'd 
That royal weight of sweetshrubs under. 



74 LYRICS. 

LEX TALIONIS. 

QNLY suppose 

I were this rose, 
And thou should'st stoop down and kiss me, 

Then pass nie by — 

Of course I should die — 
And thou ? — O thou hardly would'st miss me. 

But when Spring came again 

I'd return with the stain 
Of thy lips on my deep-bruised petals ; 

Should'st thou then stoop to pick me, 

Take care ! I would prick thee 
Till blood trickled down o'er my nettles. 

■K- * -Jf * * •}«• 

Spring comes again. 
I return with the stain 
Of thy lips on my deep-bruised petals ; 
Thou stoopest to pick me 
Once more. Do I prick thee 
Till blood trickles down o'er my nettles ? 
Nay ! I bend like a reed 'neath the old-time caresses — 
And burn a live-coal in the black of your tresses. 

LOVE. 

With apologies to Raphael and Lea, in Moore's '= Songs of the 
Angels." 

'TWO spots in all the world there are to me : 

The one bright, radiant spot 
Where beams her face, 
The one broad, dreary space 

Where she is not, 
Two spots in all the world there are to me. 



LYRICS. 75 

GRACE. 

T KNOW not what, but when she lifts her hand 

To point a flower's perfection, with *' But see ! 
How exquisite !" the blossom magically 
Assumes a rare, new fragrance, as by wand, 
And all the quicken'd sense is forthwith fann'd 

With wave on wave of Eden fragrancy. 
A subtlety — we may not understand, — 

Past painter's brush, past poet's minstrelsy. 

JAUNETTE. 

CHY violet, feigning with thy conscious lashes 

To ward aside the enamor'd earth's addresses, 
Yet, when the jealous skies, with lightning flashes, 
Would snatch thee home, dost hug it fast — O this is 
Jaunette's own way, 
So timid— yet 
Coquette ! Coquette ! 

Frail morning glory, who, ere the day dare face the 

Darkness, upliftest honeyed mouth for kisses ; 
But when its kindled passion would embrace thee, 
Tuckest thine head and vanishest — O this is 
Jaunette's own way, 
So gracious — yet 
Coquette ! Coquette ! 

Plain brier rose, who wearest thy bad temper 

Outside thy sleeve, beneath thy scanty tresses 
A heart of gold— I dare my touch {sic se?nper /) 
Shatter'd thine heart : thy nettles cling — this is 

Jaunette's own way, 

So candid — yet 

Coquette ! Coquette ! 



76 LYRICS. 

Rare Jacqueminot, whose tapering waist awaitest, 
Thornless and smooth, mine amorous caresses, 
Yet when I fain would clasp thee, concentratest 
An hundred briers in one thorn— O this is 
Jaunette's own way, 
So cultured — yet 
Coquette ! Coquette ! 

Sad-eyed Anemone, a pale recluse 

(Since Zeph'rus' fate) for thee no second bhss is ; 
Yet let wild Boreas once his passion loose, 

Thou blushest forth a twinkling star — O this is 
Jaunette's own way, 
So constant — yet 
Coquette ! Coquette ! 

Night-blooming Cereus, scorning Sol's advances. 

Retired within thy convent's chaste abysses, 
Off with thy hood ! thou'rt scheming soft romances 
With ieweled Nox at trysting-time — O this is 
Jaunette's own way, 
A saint — and yet 
Coquette ! Coquette ! 

Jaunette ! star-princess of the blossoming skies, 
Who guid'st my poor heart out earth's wilder- 
nesses. 
Now waxed so dazzling bright, dost blind the eyes 
Erewhile thou woo'dest Eden ward — O this is 
A most cruel way. 
Farewell — and yet 
Jaunette ! Jaunette ! 



LYRICS. 77 

A MAY REGRET. 

T DO repent me of the ungentle things 

I said about thee, Winter. Had I known 
That that rime-frosted mantle 'round thee thrown 
Hid roots of such luxurious blossomings, 
Of royal heartsease, lilies gold-besprent, 
And milk-white pinks, for Spring's bewilderment, 
I had not slamm'd the door so in thy face 
When thou wast fain to be my midnight guest, 
But e'en had ask'd thee to the cosiest place 
And of kind welcomes given thee the best. 

A SPRIG OF PERIWINKLE. 

A SPRIG of periwinkle from the grave of Dolly 
^ Madison. 

The prettiest and the wittiest first lady of the land 
she was, 

And like this periwinkle 
Her laughing eyes did twinkle, 
But now the periwinkle twinkles all above her 
eyes, alas. 

Sweet Dolly Madison ! 

the hearts and hearts she won I 

She was a merry lady tho' the proudest in the land, 
I ween. 

At old Montpelier 

1 pause and drop a tear 

For the dancing and the laughter down these dim old 
avenues have been. 

And yonder looms the Blue Ridge — there the fields 
of old Manassas lie — 



/» LYRICS. 

The Rapidan trips 'round the hills — so swift her merry 
tripping was — 

Yes, like the periwinkle 
Her dancing feet did twinkle, 
But now the periwinkle twinkles all above her 
feet, alas. 

Sweet Dolly Madison I 

the hearts and hearts she won ! 

She was a merry lady tho' the proudest in the land, 
I ween. 

At old Montpeher 

1 pause and drop a tear 

For the dancing and the laughter down these dim old 
avenues have been. 



RAIN IN THE DUST. 

DICH incense of roses, rare violet breath. 

The subtle aroma of mountain blue-bells, 
The sensuous perfume of magnolia bloom, 
The Edenic fragrance of white asphodels — 
Aye ! but give me the odor that rises up just 
After showers in summer of rain in the dust. 

Then roses and violets and white asphodels 
Intermix with magnolia and mountain blue- 
bells- 
All odors that charm intermingle and rise 
Till the earth seems a censer that's swung to 
the skies. 
Yes, give me the odor that rises up just 
After showers in summer of rain in the dust. 



LYRICS. 79 

"THE ETERNAL HOPE." 

CTARLESS midnight in December 

Ne'er was blacker, ne'er was colder, 
Than his heart, a Dead Sea boulder, 
A burn'd out crater, with no ember — 
" Lost, past restitution lost." 

Lo, a little child one even 
Pass'd his way : her baby prattle 
Rous'd dead passions to pitch-battle. 
As when Michael's band in Heaven 
Warr'd with the Satanic host. 

Never heard I of him after — 
If he rose or deeper fell, — 
But this lesson learn'd I well, 
While the world hears baby laughter 
Souls can never quite be lost. 

UNDER OUR FLAG. 

Two Pictures. 
I. 

UALF-couch'd in crimson plush, one slipper'd toe 

Daintily resting on an ottoman 
Of oriental dyes, a lace-wrought fan 
Concealing half her bosom's jewell'd snow, 
She lolls luxuriously ; while, breathing low 
A honey' d iteration from false lips. 
Over her half-moon'd fingertip he slips 
A rich troth- token of transplendent glow. 



80 LYRICS. 



II. 



Down in his cavern home of dawnless night, 
Sweating he toileth for the precious stone, 
While from his half-fed lips goeth up a moan 
For her who sitteth in the dim lamplight 
Far up above, and with red aching sight 
Weaveth the web-like lace with rare device, 
While to her milkless breasts, with plaintive cries, 
Cling baby lips all pinch' d and hunger white. 

TENNYSON— IN OLD AGE. 

(A Reproach.) 

"DECAUSE our poet-king 
Cannot so grandly sing 
As when the noontide ichor coursed along his veins ; 

Because his tottering lyre 

Has lost its pristine fire 
In that dear after-calm which comes when passion 
wanes ; 

Shall we for this, forsooth ! 

Proclaim his lays uncouth, 
And drag his glittering name the slimy streets along ? 

Nay ! but with tenderer grace 

Heart-press each waif that strays 
From this the precious second childhood of his song. 

AMELIE RIVES. 

(On Reading Her Early Poems.) 

Q WHAT so bright a star, 

On what so soft a morn, 
Shed influent ray that happy day, 
Amelie, thou wast born ? 



81 



O what so rare a bird, 

From what so golden chme, 

Hath taught thy throat its silvery note 

To lift in liquid rhyme — 

Columbia's nightingale of song, 

Amelie. 

From moon to moon we sit 
And northward listening lean. 
Leap up! rejoice ! for hark, a voice 
Thro' all the rhythmic din, — 
A voice from out a soul, 
A young voice, thro' a wail 
Pulsing its way, more fresh than they 
That quicken'd Tempe's vale — 
Columbia's nightingale of song, 

Amelie. 

O what so stern a fate. 

In what so ungentle wake. 

Thy midnight breast hath taught unrest, 

Thy guileless heart to break ? 

We love thee, dainty soul. 

If grief or memory-wraith 

In thy fair glade have cast its shade, 

God lift it from thy path ! 

Columbia's nightingale of song, 

Amelie. 

And yet we need thee so. 
Even as thou art, to sing, 
Upon thine harp we would not warp 
One delicate minor string. 
Long live to sing and soar ! 
Yet, in thine higher soarings, 
6 



82 LYRICS. 

For clearer truths than came in youth's 

First passionate outpourings, 

Thou need'st must reach in vain. 

Loving and life are one, 

And hearts must bleed while hearts have need 

Of love beneath the sun, 

Columbia's nightingale of song, 

Amelie. 



CORINNE. 

CORINNE ! Corinne! 
I thought to catch thine accents in my song. 
Alas, they shpp'd and ghded 'twixt my rhymes 
And trickled in and out among 
The syllables of my words. 
As easily might I forecast the chimes 
That burst from golden-throated mocking-birds 
As catch thy ghdifig cadences within 
The meshes of my rhymes, 

Corinne! Corinne! 

And, like that peerless spirit of the wood, 
Misnam'd, thou interpretest — not echoest back 
In soulless iteration. As I stood 
And listened to your plaintive y^-re<? cry, 
That morning in midwinter, thou did'st take 
Me back to July forests, where the sky 
Kisses and melts into the pines — blue-green 
Even as thy genius eyes, 

Corinne ! Corinne ! 



LYRICS. 88 



RHEA. 



pHARMANT ! I wot not in what witching wise 

Our fond old mother-tongue could perk herself 
In Frenchy airs ! Plum'd in her pretty pelf 
Of smother'd 5's, silent /'s, soft z's, 
In lisping syllables that fall and rise 
In unexpected rhythm, like a sylph 
She glints across the dusty classic shelf, 
In scorn of startled Webster — aye, defies 
Her very Pujol ! But what tho' ? Our heart, 
She reaches that, despite ! and that is where 
Words lodge and live, or glance and stillborn fall. 
Rare Rhea! we love thee in thine every /ar/, 
But in the perfum'd presence of thy fair 
Sweet woman-^^^we love thee best of all. 

RED, WHITE AND BLUE. 

A telegram to little Miss Ruth Cleveland on her arrival in the nation. 

DABY white, with starry eyes, 

Take these little stripes of song, 
With red kisses strewn along, 
From a poet 'neath blue skies. 

A SIMPLE NOTE OF THANKS. 

A SIMPLE note of thanks— yet 'tis 

Here a queen's heart its grace doth prove — ■ 
Columbia's queen, whose coronet is 
Columbia's admiring love. 

Now on her beauteous brow serene 
A brighter gem by hand of God 
Is set, that makes her doubly queen — 
The jewel of young motherhood. 



84 LYRICS. 

Out in our nation's firmament 
Her memory will shine apart, 
Like Wordsworth's star, pre-eminent 
For beauty, pureness, grace of heart. 

But ah ! her delicatest deed 

Of grace, that all the rest outranks, 

Is, that she took the time to read 

My lines, and send this note of thanks. 

WHAT FLOWER IS BABY MARY? 

WHAT flower is Baby Mary ? 
A rose ? Ah, no ! 
That breathes and blows 
An hour, then goes 
To make its bed beneath the snows. 
What flower is Baby Mary ? 

A rose ? Ah, no ! 

What flower is Baby Mary ? 

A violet ? Nay ! 
That lifts its head, 
Then droops it, dead. 
And all its joy is spent and sped. 
What flower is Baby Mary ? 

A violet ? Nay. 

What flower is Baby Mary ? 

A white asphodel, 
That oped its eyes 'neath Eden skies 
To bloom for aye in Paradise. 
This flower is Baby Mary — 

A white asphodel. 



LYRICS. 85 

BABY'S FIRST JOURNEY. 

UOLD out your arms, nurse — 

Steady, my little one ! 
Let go my fingers, miss — 

You've still got the middle one. 

No crawling — learn to walk — 

Don't jump — don't fidget — 

Gracefully — head erect — 
Step, little midget ! 

Don't stare so woe-begone, 

The carpet is downy. 
Don't squat as guineas do ! 

Don't climb, like Bunny ! 

Now be a Joan d'Arc ! 

Hip ! hip ! one, two, three ! 
What's that in nurse's hand ? 

Sugar-plum, seems to me I 

No need to coo like that. 

Full time you learn, miss. 

Only by labor hard 

Good things we earn, miss. 

Once more ! and up again ! 

Now a step forward ! 
Don't clutch my girdle so, 

You little coward ! 

See, nurse, she's made a step 

Into the rosie-red ; 
One more will take her clear 

Over the posy-bed. 



86 LYRICS. 

That's papa's precious girl ! 

What a sight he misses ! 
Nurse, give up the plum, while I 

Smother her with kisses ! 

"TOGETHER GREW^UPON ONE STEM." 

(Grandmother— Granddaughter.) 

'TOGETHER grew upon one stem 
A white rose and a white rosebud. 

Gazing, full of love, on them, 

Close beside, a poet stood. 

And O ! I said, together so 
Might they always bud and blow. 

The bud reached up toward the rose, 
The rose stooped down toward the bud, 
Each leaning on the other close, 
Clasping, kissing all they could. 

And O ! I said, in wise like this, 
Might they always clasp and kiss. 

A playful zephyr slipt between, 
Unclaspt their arms in mock disdain, 
Then friskt them into friends again 
More fast than ever they had been. 
And O ! I said, in this coy way, 
Might they always frisk and play. 

But Time, who is the rose's friend, 
Is, too, the rose's ruthless foe. 
And brings, with certain pace, we know, 
Alike to age and youth — an end 

Then O ! I said, by art's sweet grace, 
I'll set them in the Future's vase. 



LYRICS. 87 

TO THE AUTUMN WOODS OF EIGHTEEN- 
EIGHTY-EIGHT. 

r\ AUTUMN Woods of Eighteen-eighty-eight ! 

How can you smile and flaunt your yellow arms, 
In mockery of danger's flag-alarms 
Thick waving o'er our stricken Sister-State. 
Sweet Florida lies dying 
While o'er the hills you're flying, 
A-pleasuring in holiday array I 

Twelve moons ago I bounded o'er your hills 
Blithe as your swallows and as careless-merry, 
I gathered jewels from your whortleberry 
And dipped my fingers in your laughing rills. 
To-day I cannot bear 
Your red-and yellow glare, 
But turn mine aching eyes the Boreal way. 

Fling down your glittering sceptre, goldenrod I 
Take off your royal ensign, purple phlox ! 
Shake the haw-rubies from your golden locks ! 
Put on your sackcloth, don your sombre hoodl 

And bid your breezes sigh 

A dirge-like melody 
In sympathy with our sweet sister's passion. 

Then o'er your darkling hilltops, lightning-fleet, — 
Speed with a message to the Ice King's home, 
And bid the great Physician this way come, 
Arm'd with his sheets of snow, his pills of sleet, 

Fair Florida to save 

From an untimely grave — 
The pet and bridal state of our proud nation. 



88 LYRICS. 

IN FLORIDA. 

"\17H0'S yon merry maiden, 
Dancing down the dune, 

Roseate robes array'd in, 

Arms with blossoms laden, 
On her lips a tune, 
In her hair the moon ? 

Sure yon radiant maiden 
Is the Lady June. 

Nay ! yon lovely maiden, 
With the step so fairy, 

Roseate robes array'd in, 

Arms with blossoms laden. 
Tuneful lips and cherry, 
Crescent-crowned and merry — 

Nay ! yon radiant maiden 
Is young January. 

IN AN ORANGE GROVE. 

"PIS day — and yet the stars ! 

Sure heavenly constellations these ! 
There's Vemis ! and there's Mars ! 
And yonder faint the Pleiades / 

The Sickle's curve ! — and lo ! 
Orion s ruddy belt is plain. 
The Serpent's sinuous path — and O ! 
Behold great " Charles^ Wain." 

Ofttimes I've prayed the prayer 
On earth let Heaven's kingdom be, 
But little dream' d I now and here 
The beauteous symbol thus to see. 



89 



BAY AND PALM. 

DEHOLD yon green baytree : 

Close to the ground it flourisheth 
Emblem of man's mortality, 
To it the purer air were death. 

Behold again yon palm : 
Only in higher air it thriveth; 
Emblem of spirit, lofty, calm, 
Ever towards the stars it striveth. 



ON POINT OF SPANISH BAYONET." 

rjN point of "Spanish Bayonet'' 

See Mariposa calmly sit — 
Which I, with all my wisdom, must 
Avoid lest in me it be thrust. 
Sweet Edith Thomas would declare 
'Tis " frailty's shield " preserves him there. 

And yet methinks, sweet butterfly, 
Rather than thee I would be I, 
Thou thinkest that is Heaven — and yet, 
'Tis point of Spanish Bayonet ! 
Give me the little grain of sense — 
Take thou the blissful ignorance. 

O LILIES OF ST. JOHN'S. 

Q LILIES of St. John's ! No schism 

Can ere apostate you to soil 
Of earth. Your life, one long baptism, 
Exempteth you from mortal toil. 



90 LYRICS. 



A FLORIDA TWILIGHT. 

T SIT beneath a golden-fruited mandarin. 

To westward, thro' the zephyr-swaying emerald 

boughs, 
I glimpse the placid bosom of fair " Loch Katrine," 
Beaded with mother-of-pearl. To eastward, rows 
On. rows of topaz oranges, with here and there 
A jacinth tangerine, foil'd by a silvering grape, 
While conscious twilight spreadeth o'er the whole 

landscape 
An amethystine veil looped with one diamond star. 



NEW MOON ON ST. JOHN'S. 

^'TIS new moon on St. John's, 

And a charm is on my soul. 
And what care I which way the die 
Be cast or the fate-wheels roll ? 
Can souls in Heaven be conscience-riven 
For souls that have miss'd the goal? 
'Tis new moon on St. John's, 
And a charm is on my soul. 

On northward heights they freeze, 

In southward swamps they burn. 

But God is above and I may not move 

The scales of doom to turn. 

So what care I which way the die 

Be cast, or the fate-wheels roll — 

'Tis new moon on St. John's, 

And a charm is on my soul. 



LYRICS. 91 

SWEETHEART JANUARY. 

yHRUSHES in the liveoaks 

Make my pathway merry, 
As I rove to meet my love, 

Sweetheart January ! 
My new love, my true love, 

Sweetheart January ! 

Au revoir, December dear! 

Poets may not tarry. 
She hath violets in her hair, 

Moss-veil'd January I 
My fair love, my rare love, 

Sweetheart January ! 

In her breast are lemonbuds — 
Of their thorns I'm chary — 

I would kiss thee an' I dared, 
Blushing January. 

My shy love, my coy love, 
Sweetheart January I 

In her hands is glittering gold — 

Maid unmercenary ! 
All thy treasures I would hold, 

Bounteous January ! 
O sweet love, O fleet love. 

Sweetheart January ! 

For new charms I'll pass thee by, 

Grown of thine aweary. 
But to-day for thee I'd die, 

Darling January ! 
O glad love, O mad love. 

Sweetheart January, 



92 LYRICS. 

ON LAKE MINNEHAHA. 

T O ! I have awaked in Fairie-land, 

Where oranges burst thro' the glittering sand, 
And lakes, hke diamonds, circle and deck 
Fair Florida's beautiful swanlike neck — 
In a spot of perennial summertime weather, 
Where the gulf and the ocean come nearest together, 
I sit 'neath a golden tangerine, 
Whose drooping branches serve to screen 
The sensitive strings of a Georgia harp 
From breezes that worry and beams that warp. 

Just down the orange avenue 

I glimpse the " laughing waters " blue — 

Beautiful Baby Minnehaha, 

Nourish'd by Dame Palatlakaha — 

She smiles and beckons and dimples with glee 

And kisses her jewell'd fingers at me. 

And tosses her tresses, and calls, " Come down 

For a frolic ! " I answer, " Anon, anon ! " 

Clustering grapefruit hangs near the door. 

Like Eshcol clusters from Canaan's shore, 

Borne on a staff — and lo ! and behold ! 

Little Brownies are springing up out of the mold — 

Shade of St. Nicholas ! Whence did they come? 

There's Alton and Hulsey and Nellie and Tom — 

Now they scoot down the sand-slope and into the 

brake — 
Now the boys are half-way to their knees in the 

lake — 
I scream to them vainly. Now each little trooper 
Wades out, with a mussel to bake for my supper ! 



LYRICS. 93 

Now shadows are falling o'er valley and dune — 
Minnehaha is waiting for Grandmother Moon 
To kiss her good night — all bedight in a gown 
As white as May blossoms and fluffy as down, 
Her pretty red cloak and her dainty blue shoes 
Laid aside till to-morrow. And now how she coos 
And claps and flings kisses, for Grandmother Moon 
Is peeping just over the hilltops, and soon 
The mists will have vanished and left her round face 
All dimples and smiles for the darling embrace. 

FAREWELL TO LOCH KATRINE. 
'PHE pines stalactite moss into the wave, 

The wave stalagmites it again to shore : 
From where my shallop drifts I seem once more 
To dare the dangers of the Luray Cave. 

As some dread mystery of the Holy Ghost 
Upholds us when the eye of faith we lift, 
Thus in my faithful shallop do I drift 
Safest and surest where I seem'd most lost. 

I turn : a trillion diamonds twinkle out 
Across the wave — now into opals melt — 
Now fire into an amethystine belt, 
Girding the bosom of the lake about. 

As Father Son had thought it best to go 
From his beloved earth a little while, 
But left behind, in one bright after-smile. 
The promise of the Comforter. And lo ! 

Where now she shimmers forth, the Evening Star, 
To guide me homeward o'er the darkling lake. 
Sweet friends! I'll greet you in morn's earliest wake. 
Now God be with you — for in God we are. 



94 LYRICS. 

THE LADY IN THE MOON. 

(Music by Emma Hahr.) 

(ROMANZA.) 

"PWAS moonrise at Luray, 

In the heart of the Shenandoah vale ; 
Sweet Anne raised her eyes my way 
And thus my credence did assail : 

" There is never a man in the moon," quoth she, 
But a lady, as plain as a lady can be.'' 
"Oho ! '' said I — and the mystery 
Of the moon's soft charm was clear to me. 

Sweet Anne left me. We builded a bridge 

Of kisses over the stern Blue Ridge. 

And every night at moonrise she 

Cometh back over that bridge to me, — 

Over the mountain, the vale and the lea, 
This sweet moon-lady that dwells by the sea. 

IN THE CAVERNS OF LURAY. 

'PHRO' all those mystic chambers subterrene, 

Uncharm'd I pass'd, till 'neath the " Angel's 
Wing," 
That sentinels the " Grand Cathedral '' door, 

I paus'd, and heard the " Organ '' play within 
A soft Te Deiim, — for this seem'd to bring 
Down Heaven where Hell was pictur'd hereto- 
fore. 

But in those mystic chambers subterrene 

Was something I could better understand — 

Something to text a sermon from, I ween : 

The " Ballroom '' with the " Graveyard '' close at hand. 







LYRICS. 95 

AN UNSUNG SONG. 

FOR the art 
To utter my heart ! 
In it now flutter thoughts sweeter, I ween, 
Than ever entangled in rhythm were seen. 
Which into expression no coaxing will start. 

Sentiments sweeter, 

Purer, completer, 
Than ever gusht forth from the Helicon bard 
In melody dulcet ; yet — O, it is hard ! 
Persistent they shun all acquaintance with metre. 

Rhyme they'll none of it — 

Think they're above it, 
Haply — woe's me ! how the strong guiding hand 
That turn'd glowing thoughts into shape at command 
Of the Mantuan Master this moment I covet. 

But never a letter 

Shall hold you in fetter, 
Sweet sentiments born in my bosom to-night 
Unutterable. Well, peradventure 'tis right. 
At least for your presence I feel I'm the better. 

MY DREAM. 

I LOVE you, I love you. They call you my dream; 

And you are; I know it by one true test : 
Toil how I may thro' the long happy day, 
My dreaming hours are my best. 

My Dream ! O my Dream, my beautiful Dream ! 
My dream of heaven-on-earth come true ! 
They can no more keep you out of my sleep 
Than they keep out of roses the dew i 



96 LYRICS. 

They can no more bar you out of my prayer 
Than they bar out of heaven the blue. 

My Dream — yes, my Dream — my one true Dream, 
That out of sleep's valley dawn'd none too soon ; 
They can no more shut you out of my hope 
Than they shut out the roses from June ; 
They can no more bar you out of my life 
Than they bar the tides from the moon ! 

My day-dream, my night-dream, my dream-within- 

dreams. 
The one dream of warning I watch for and heed. 
And my one wish supreme, my beautiful Dream, 
Is to live my way up to thy need — 
By silence, by song, be the way short or long. 
By patience, by prayer — whatever the stair, 
To climb my way up to thy need. 

"MY LOVE FOR YOU IS LIKE A CANDLE 
BURNING." 

j\/TY love for you is like a candle burning 

In a dark room — your all that shows the way ; 
Emerg'd now in the light of entering day, 
'Tis set aside to await the night's returning. 

My love for you is like a star in heaven, — 
Day dawns, 'tis needed not and seems to die ; 
And yet it waits there calmly in the sky 

To guide you homeward thro' the darkling even. 

Thus would I have my love for you remain. 

'Tis friendship's better part. The whole world may 
Rejoice with you when all is glad and gay, 

But let me be your balm in hour of pain. 



LYRICS. 97 

LILIES FOR THE BABY'S GRAVE. 

A S a pearl tost by the wave. 

As a star that melts in day, 
So the baby pass'd away. 
Lilies for the baby's grave. 

As a pearl tost by the wave 

From the world's great shore of doubt, 

So the little life tost out. 

Lilies for the baby's grave. 

As a star that melts in day 
Seems to lose the light it gave, 
So the baby pass'd away. 
Lilies for the baby's grave. 

WELCOME, BABY MARGARET. 

Margaret: "A Pearl." 

WELCOME, Baby Margaret, 

From the golden shores of God — 

Little pearl of comfort set 

In bereaved Motherhood. 



98 LYRICS. 



WITH TERPSICHORE. 



THE NATIONAL DANCES— WALTZ. 

[German movement, with Florentine Chanson — Anacreontic] 

r\NE-iwo-^/iree, one-two-three, 

Drain the grace-cup with me- - 
Waltzing, sweet waltzing is love's oratory— so 

One-two-three, one-tzvo-three, 

Drain the grace-cup with me — 
Let old Fame, let old Fame have all her glory — O ! 

One-two-three, one-two-three, 

Drain the grace-cup with me, 
Let old War, let old War, have all his victory. 

One-two-three, one-two-three. 

Drain the grace-cup with me — 
Give us sweet Bacchus and tripping Terpsichore ! 

VESUVIENNE. 

(FRENCH MOVEMENT.) 

"HTHAT is love but a dream? 

What is fame but a chance ? 
What is toil but a scheme ? 
What is life but a dance ? — 
To the right now, to the left now, 
To the right now again. 
Then trip with me, skip with me 
Over the green ! 



LYRICS. 99 

What is sighing but sin ? 
What is grieving but wrong ? 
The heart that would win 
Must carry a song — 

To the right now, to the left now, 
To the right now again. 
Then sigh no more, cry no more, 

On my heart lean. 
And trip with me, skip with me 

Over life's green. 

POLKA.* 

(BOHEMIAN MOVEMENT.) 

One-andtwo-and-three-and-four-and 
0?te, two, three, fo2ir, 

FJANC'D a wicked peasant girl 
All on a Sunday's eve. 
The schoolmaster so charmed was, 
He set the dance to bars, alas— 
Now would you it believe, 
And would you it believe ! — 
He slipt it off to Paristown, 
Where Prague, that master of renown, 
Danced it before the wicked world 
All on a Sunday's eve. 

It soon became a great e^icore, 
This otie-and-two-and-three-and-four^ 

One, two^ three, four, 
And would you it believe, 

* According to Czosnowski. 



100 



Now would you it believe? 

It swept the town in seven days 

And soon became the nation's craze, 
And even skipt the Atlantic wave 
And — would y oil it believe? — 
Old Ocean did to listen stop, 
While hemispheres lockt arms to rock 

This 07ic-and-two-a7id-three-and-foicr-and 
One, two, three, four, 

This dance the wicked peasant girl 
Made on a Sunday's eve. 

MAZOURKA. 

(polish movement. ) 

Tune, " Black Key Mazourka:' 

Bi-e-ld-ski, Sar-bi-ews'-ki, Mct-sal-ski, and 

Se -mi-ens' -ki, 
T'HOSE renowned Polish poets whom 

we all adore. 
Decided they would fashion, 

fashion. 
In honor of the nation, 

nation, 
A dance of such gyration — 
— ration 
As never was danced before. 

One-and-two-and-three-and-four-and, 

One-and-twoand-three-and-four-and, 

One-and-two-and-three-and-four-andy 

One, two, three, four. 



LYRICS. 101 

When with a dedication, 

— cation, 
They gave it to the nation, 
nation. 
With Pole-to- Pole gyration, 
— ration, 
It made a grea.t/uror. 

It soon became the fashion, 

fashion. 
And all the wide creation, 

— ation, 
With mighty acclamation, 

— mation 
Gave to it the floor, — 
This one-and-two-and-three-and-four-andy etc. 

FISHER'S HORNPIPE. 

(SCOTTISH MOVEMENT.) 

pOME all ye sighing lasses, while old Time 

So slily passes — 
He is filching all your roses while you 

Sigh your hearts away, — 
Come let your wee feet twinkle to 

My hurdy-gurdy's tinkle, 
Or with crow's feet he will wrinkle you 

And sprinkle you with gray. 

Unbind your bonnie tresses to the 

Laddies' soft caresses — 
They have sigh'd for you and cried 

For you and all but died away, — 



102 LYRICS. 

Let your double feet now twinkle 

To my hurdy-gurdy's tinkle, 

Or with crow's feet Time will wrinkle 

You and sprinkle you with gray. 

RAQUET. 

(AMERICAN MOVEMENT.) 

pOME, love, and glide with me — 

Over the bowling green. 
One-two ajid one-two-three — 
Hearts and hands are clean. 

Sweet blows the myrtle tree, 
Stars shine down serene — 

One-two and one-two-three — 
Over the bowling green. 

Bright seems the world to me 
When on my heart you lean — 

One-two and one-two three — 
Hearts and hands are clean. 

Then come, love, and dwell with me — 

Be my spirit's queen — 
Come glide thro' life with me 

Over the bowling green — 
One-two and one-two-three, 

Over the bowling green. 



LYRICS. 103 



WITH THALIA. 



A WORD FOR SAPPHO. 
A WORD for Sappho. Not to paean 

Her suicide for love of Phaon — 
A slanderous myth ! research will prove- 
Not but sweet Sappho died of love, 
But died as Hugo says to do it : 
To die of love is to live thro' it.'* 

Thus Sappho died of love for Phaon ; 
Wherefore I lift mine humble paean 
To prove the Sapphic head was level, 
Tho' Sapphic feet in strophe revel. 

True, into exile was she sent, 
But there are poets most content — 
I doubt me not sweet Sappho we^it. 

Exiled from what? "The vulgar herd." 
At home with the Sicilian bird. 
She stroll' d the sylvan solitude. 
And nurs'd her soft erotic mood. 
And harp'd an Aphroditean ode 
To thrill the coming centuries' blood, 
And drew from heaven such pure satire 
As set the classic globe on fire. 
And right and left such strophes hurl'd 
As set a measure for the world ! 



104 LYRICS. 

Whilst Phaon, I dare say, crept apart 

And died, man-like, of a broken heart ! 

Or haply 'twas his neck he broke 

Leaping from that " Leucadian rock " — 

On fame his solitary claim 

That once sweet Sappho smiled on him — 

That peerless gem of Mytillene 

Who smiles thro' century-mists serene. 

To-day all poets to Sappho fly 
Who would artistically sigh, 
All lovers true to Sappho hie 
When they would classically "die." 
For, know, as doth a poet behoove, 
The peerless Sappho died of love — 
But died as Hugo says to do it : 
" To die of love is to live thro' if 

JAMESTOWN WEED'S REVENGE. 
A Comedy of Two Continents. 

In Five Acts. 

Act I. 

JAMESTOWN weed sprung up in the corn 
Down at the edge of a Georgia cornfield ; 
She wrapp'd her 'round with a prickly shield — 
Said she, " I am proud, tho' I be low-born. 
Let the rabble corn stretch forth, if it will, 
Its tassel'd head and its welcoming arms ; 
I will hide from the vulgar world my charms, 
And never my heart shall they grind in the 
mill "— 

Said Jamestown Weed. 



LYRICS. 105 

Now a great dame, come from a foreign land, 
Pass'd one day thro' the Georgia cornfield ; 
And Jamestown Weed threw up her shield 
And lifted her hly cup in her hand. 

The great dame paused, 'twixt a smile and a 
frown. 

Half in scorn, half ecstasy — 

" I will carry you home to Londontown 

And enter you into Society," 

The great dame said. 

Act II. 

Now in Londontown they do wonderful things. 

I am told that, without impropriety. 

In their great Hothouse of Society, 

They cultivate angels — ^just minus the wings. 

There they rob Autumn's bosom of flowers for 

Spring's, 
In October's hair they stick daffodowndillies, 
Old Winter they deck out in roses and lihes — 
O, in Londontown they do wonderful things I 

Man has taken the weather out of God's hands, 
And storm and tide pass under his rod 
As they used to yield to the beckon of God — 
They have only to loosen Orion's bands 

In Londontown. 

Oh I you never had known poor Jamestown Weed, 
Had you seen her there with her proud arch'd neck 
And her lovely complexion with never a speck 
Nor a freckle to mar, — and her well-pois'd head. 



106 LYRICS. 

And her Queen Anne collar of velvety green, 
And her mantle she stood so statelily in, 
Fastened about her with never a pin ! — 
Ah ! but she looked like a very born queen. 

Poor Jamestown Weed ! had you only but held 
Your breath when the great dame ventured the touch 
Of her blueblooded nose — you might now have 

swelled 
On that great dame's breast 'neath a diamond 

brooch. 

But barely her highness had lifted you up 
Than over her senses the memory came 
Of a prickly weed and a vulgar name 
And a noxious draught from a cornfield cup. 

And so to the pavement she fillipt you down, 
With an air of contempt, " O blood will tell I 
That vulgar, that vile co7itineiital smell ! 
'Twas folly to bring you to Londontown 1 " 

The great dame said. 

Better to be in the cornfield still. 

Poor Jamestown Weed ! hiding under the corn — 

Better by far to have never been born — 

Or to have your heart ground up in the mill, 

Poor Jamestown Weed. 

Act III. 

Now the great dame's Doctor, chancing that way, 
Shpt his heel upon Jamestown Weed, 
So as to make her poor heart bleed, 
Red blood mixed with an English gray. 



107 



First some very undoctorly words he said, 
Then his pellet eyes rolled in visions of glory, 
" I will carry you home to my laboratory, 
And make you in pellets to raise the dead " — 
That Doctor said. 

Act IV. 

Now that very same day, so the townspeople tell it, 
The great dame, seized with a violent rack 
All down her chest and her neck and her back, 
Sends for her Doctor to fly with a pellet. 

And the Doctor is there in a cat's eye-winking 

(For when great dames call good doctors come 

quick), 
And he finds the great dame sick, very sick — 
Indeed the great dame is rapidly sinking. 

"Quick, Doctor I good Doctor I I'm dying fast I " 
So Jamestown Weed in her little coat 
Of sugar slips down that great dame's throat, 
Saying, " Oho I my time has come at last I " 

The great dame's Doctor is holding his breath, 
And the great dame is clutching the good Doctor 

tight. 
Says Jamestown Weed, " Shall I kill her outright, 
Or shall I make it a lingering death ? '' 

Now she doubled her up — now she soothed her a spell, 
But the very next moment, so I have been told 
(For weeds somedmes have hearts of gold). 
The great dame sprang to her feet sound-well 1 



108 LYRICS. 

" O Doctor ! what wonderful pill have we here I " 
'* StrajHonhwi, madam — the more vulgar name 
Is ' Jimson,' a field-weed " — But here the great dame 
Sends a shriek thro' the rafters, "O dear! and O 
Dear ! !— 

'* That weed with the vile continental smell ! 
I picked up and foolishly thought to refine — 
Do you mean, sir, to say I have take?i her in ? " 
And back in the bed in a spasm she fell. 

*'Not so fast!'' said the Doctor, well-arm'd in a 

minute — 
" It is not so bad as it seems to be — 
You have swallow'd one of the F. F. V., 
With a strain of the real Pocahontas blood in it ! " 

Act V. 

Passers by now observe in the great dame's boudoir 
A pale stately bloom, which she calls Queen de Lis, 
And kisses in passing, and Vi\2^^s pot-pourri 
Of its leaves, as they fall, for her jewel'd rose-jar. 

Her good doctor now she needs never to call, 
And she cares less and less for Society, 
As she gives all her heart to her sweet protege — 
Whose breeding dates back as far as St. Paul. 

PRETTY CAPRICE. 

(Capra: A Goat ) 

pRETTY Caprice rusht down to the lake 
To drown herself for love's own sake; 
For her lover was false, they said, 
And why not, then, be dead .'' 



LYRICS. 109 

Pretty Caprice had not rusht far 
When she stumpt her toe on a broken jar, 
And hoppt back to the house to have 
It doctor' d with Grandpa's salve. 

Pretty Caprice got just to the door 

When she thought of her visit to the poor 
That she had not made that week — 
So she hasten'd her basket to seek. 

Pretty Caprice on her way to the cupboard, 
Espying her cheese-cloth Mother Hubbard, 
Straightway began to gape, 
And crawled to her room for a nap. 

Now pretty Caprice had done all this 

And twenty things else, the notional miss. 
When unto her mind it occurr'd 
That maybe her neighbor had err'd — 

Yes ! the envious thing ! she had slander'd her lover ! 
So she snatcht up her hat and the street hurried over, 
To challenge Miss Emma Lou Gray — 
To a two-handed game of croquet. 

BALLADE OF THE LITTLE CORNER. 

(Dedicated to My Mother.) 

CHE is just a little corner 
^ Of red Atlanta clay, 
Too long to fit a sonnet 
And too homely for a lay, 
But I love her; yes, I love her. 
And I'll put her in my tome, 
Because this Httle corner 
Is the key to mother's home. 



no 



Some call her "little shoestring," 
Some call her ''little snag," 
Some call her "little matchbox,'* 
Some call her "little thorn ;'' 
She's a modest little corner, 
And she knows not how to brag. 
And she has too little brea'th, alas ! 
To blow her own horn : 
So she just accepts these titles. 
And holds on to her own, 
And some day, a la Paul, she may- 
Become the chiefest stone. 

She's a quiet little corner, 
But when she needs to speak 
She can use the German language, 
Or the Latin, or the Greek ; 
But generally lets others talk 
And hides her blushing cheek, 
And goes on with her business 
In a manner mild and meek. 

She's a fruitful little corner, 

And annually bears 

Ten carloads of bananas 

And five thousand crates of pears ; 

Not to mention little lunches 

Of bread and salad made. 

And such harmless little punches 

As sweet milk and lemonade. 

She's a pious little corner 
And careth not for pelf. 
And loves her gentle neighbors 
Even as she loves herself: 



LYRICS. Ill 

And she would not, could she help it, 
Stand in anybody's light, 
Nor be a pebble of offence. 
For that's 

Not 

Right. 

Some day she may sink out of sight 
(An earthquake happening by), 
And then again she may shoot up 
And all but kiss the sky ; 
There is no teUing now, you know, 
About these little corners — 
Some day she may pull up a plum 
As big as Jacky Horner's. 

Meanwhile Til go on weaving 

Little lyrics to adorn her ; 

For some day Pussy's sure to come, 

And "Pussy wants a corner." 

But if she wants it badly 

She will have to wait and labor, 

And sing that psalm of life that sprung 

From dear Longfellow's Faber — 

For this timid little corner 

Might say, 

"Next 

Door 

Neighbor." 

She's a happy little corner. 
Once she stood all alone, 
With no strong arm to support her, 
And she made a hollow moan, 



112 LYRICS. 

Until an admiring neighbor 

Saw her unprotected side 

And offered her his hand and purse — 

"Pray, would she be his bride?'' 

She responded, blushing coyly, 

"There's such difference in our heights — 

But I'll let you stand beside me — 

For I'm not a 'woman's rights' — 

I'll be a sister to you, 

And you can be my brother — 

I can't promise to obey you, 

For — I'm promised to another.'* 

So once again she's swimming 

On fortune's tidal wave, 

And her grateful heart is brimming 

For this kind support he gave. 

Yes, she's just a little corner 
Of red Atlanta clay. 
Too long to fit a sonnet. 
And too homely for a lay; 
But I love her; yes, 1 love her. 
And I'll put her in my tome, 
For this precious little corner 
Is the key to mother's home. 

ALBOIN AND ROSAMOND. 
TJIGH run the revel. 'Round the spacious board 
Capacious bowls of Bacchus sparkling pour 'd. 
"The skull of Cunnimund ! " Alboin cried. 
A courtier instant placed it at his side. 
A ghastly sight ! yet splendid— where once beam'd 
The warrior's eyes, two blood-red rubies gleam' d. 



LYRICS. 113 

All rimm'd around it was with Ophir's gold, 
The royal coat-of-arms thereon inscroll'd. 
(Alboin's hand it was had laid him low, 
In jealousy of Rosamond's devotion.) ^^Now 
Bid my fair spouse^ ' ' he cried, ' ' the feast to join, 
From her mourn' d sire' s skull to sip sweet wine.''' 
With agonizing rage cag'd in her breast, 
Fair Rosamond obeisance thus exprest : 
''^Thy will, my liege, my privilege 'tis to obey ; " 
But e'er her lips, all quivering, touch'd the clay, 
A silent vow they made, the insult should 
That day be wiped out with Alboin's blood. 

The banquet o'er, the Emperor, drows'd with drink, 

Betakes him to his couch, in rest to sink. 

His anxious spouse, to insure her lord's repose, 

Charges the palace guard the gates to close ; 

Now sinks beside his couch and smoothes his tresses, 

Till slumber falls, allur'd by soft caresses. 

But barely into Lethe hath he glided 

When, lo ! the silken arras are divided — 

Out slip the affrighted colleagues, all in mask, 

Urg'd straight to execute their heinous task. 

Now, at her signal, at his side they crouch, [couch, 

The Emperor, warn'd in dreams, springs from his 

His hand upon his trusty broadsword laid — 

But, lo ! the scabbard fails to yield the blade. 

The hand of Rosamond hath made it fast— 

And smiling now she sees him breathe his last. 

And to this day the world hath to decide, 

Which is in infamy the deeper dyed — 

The Emperor, Alboin, or his bride. 



114 LYRICS. 



IN ZION. 



" IN THE DAYS OF MY YOUTH." 

An Invocation. 

PREPARE me, O God, for the day Thou hast 

spoken, 
When the daughters of music shall be brought low, 
When the voice of a bird shall rise up as a token 
And the sound of the grinding be distant and low. 
The silver cord loos'd, and the golden bowl broken, 
And earth's pleasant fountains with bitterness flow. 

In the days of my youth let me heed life's conclu- 
sion, 
Ere dust unto dust I return to the sod; 
My will against thine were presumptuous obtrusion. 
Soon to my long home passing under thy rod — 
'Tis the whole of man's duty— all else is confusion — 
To love Thee and keep Thy commandments, O God. 

Not the making of books be my task without end- 
ing- 
There is but one book, e'en the Book of Thy Word — 
But a song from a heart to be ever upsending 
With praises toward heaven, like the song of a bird, 
That haply some wand'rer may cease his offending, 
To list to my lay . and so turn to his Lord. 



LYRICS. 115 

WHEN FIRST I ESSAY'D ON MY UNTUTOR'D 
LYRE. 

WHEN first I essay'd on my untutor'd lyre 
^^ To lift to Thee, O Pure and Undefiled, 
A psalm, I falter'd out, like Jeremiah, 

*' Lord God, I cannot speak — I am a child.'' 

Then came a gentle voice, " Be not afraid — 
My influence shall hover o'er thy hand." 

Before my angel I bow'd low my head, 
And sang as inspiration gave command. 

Unto my psalm I said, "O let thy feet 
Be swift and beautiful upon the mount, 

As one who brings suspense glad tidings sweet. 
Or stricken thirst cool pitchers from a fount. 

Ah ! might'st thou woo one troubled soul to lean 
More surely on His grace, my task were done." 

" Nay ! '' interpos'd my angel, with serene 
Assurance, " it were only just begun." 

CHRIST THE LIVING WATER. 

Anthem. 

TJO ! every one that thirsteth, come ye to the foun- 
•^^ tain 

And drink the living water freely given ; 
Come ye that have no money 
And get you wine and honey. 
And eat the bread of life that cometh only down 
from heaven. 



116 LYRICS. 

O whyfore spend ye money for that which is not 
substance ? 
Why labor ye for that which cannot fill, 
While wine of inspiration 
For every pure ambition 
Outgusheth here in plenteous founts from Zion's holy 
hill? 

Ye who have some secret sorrow that recoileth from 
the daylight — 
Perchance some fleshly idol turn'd to stone — • 
Here give your cross expression, 
Here unbosom your confession 
And hide your sorrow's ashes in the rock whence ye 
were hewn. 

Come all ye toiling multitudes, ye weeders of the 
vineyard, 
Who sweat while idle worldings sleep or parley, 
Come to this fount of blessing. 
Of mercy never ceasing, 
And get wheat instead of thistles, and instead of 
cockle, barley. 

Come all ye that mourn in Zion, here is beauty for 
your ashes, 
Here is liberty for captives of the sword — 
With the oil of joy anoint you, 
And, as Heaven did appoint you, 
Be ye as trees of righteousness, the planting of the 
Lord. 

Have ye battled with the footmen ? have ye wrestled 
with the horsemen ? 



LYRICS. 117 

Have ye put your trust in chariots and been 
thrown ? 

Here the hehnet of salvation 
Will protect you from the passion 
Of the swelling of the Jordan when " the wakeful 
trump '' is blown. 

Come all ye weary-laden, drink the living water freely ; 
The Spirit and the Bride say, Come. 
Come every one that heareth 
And (the Spirit witness beareth) 
Be ye beautified and "clothed upon" with your 
celestial home. 

And the prickly thorn will vanish for the fir-tree's 

glad upspringing, 
And where crept the brier will spread the myrtle-tree, 
And while pseans to Heav'n are winging. 
And while Heaven-harps are ringing, 
And while chapel-bells are swinging, 
Mount Zion will burst forth singing, 
And the echoing little hills will skip and clap their 
hands for glee. 

TO-DAY'S GETHSEMANE. 

A LONE on heaven-heights His Spirit dwelt. 

What time on earth He laid His healing touch, 
And O, I think His loneHness was such 
As human isolation never felt. 

But came an hour when, tempted and earth-weary, 
He stole apart unto Gethsemane, 
With Peter and the sons of Zebedee, 
There to uplift his night-long ttiiserere. 



118 LYRICS. 

But while He prayed, they off to slumber crept, 

" The faithful three "—aye, while He hfted up 

His eyes to God's White Throne and drained His 

cup 
Of passion, they — even they, His disciples — slept. 

Even so I think that He to-day may weep 

In memory of earth's Gethsemane, 

To see his churches, like " The faithful three," 

When most He needs them, creeping off to sleep. 



EASTER ANTHEM. 

r\ LOOK ye ! the floral apostles are spreading 

A scroll of glad tidings o'er earth's desert 
places — 
A psalm beatific, in signs hieroglyphic, 
All writ by the roses and lilies and daisies. 

Listen ! hsten ! Christ is risen ! 
Sing the new heavens and the new earth. 

Old things to-day are vanish'd away— 
The risen Christ hath birth. 

The little lambs heed it and o'er the hills speed it. 
The happy hills pass it apace to the trees, 
The trees clap it forward to birds soaring starward, 
And the heavens rediamond it over the seas. 

Listen ! listen ! Christ is risen ! 
Sing the new heavens and the new earth. 

Old things to-day are vanish'd away, 

The risen Christ hath birth. 



LYRICS. 119 



THE TREE I LOVE. 

[Set to Music by H. B. Augustine, of Elgin, HI.] 
Ps. lii. 8. 
TN the house of my God many trees there are, 

On the banks of the Beautiful River, — 
Cedars of Lebanon, rich and rare ; 
The Tree of Life, whose broad leaves are 
For the healing of nations ; the fig tree, too. 
Once wither'd by Truth, now by Truth made new. 
But the tree I love in the sacred sod 
On the banks of the Beautiful River 
Is the tree where the sweet tired Psalmist stood 
In his harp's selah, with soul a-quiver. 
Is the green olive tree in the house of my God. 
And I trust in His mercy forever and ever. 

KING DAVID DANCED. 

pROM Obed-Edom brought they out 
The ark of God with joyful shout. 
In sooth it was a goodly sight I 
" Before the Lord," with all his might, 

King David danced. King David danced. 

Six goodly oxen did they kill — 

King David danced. 
And blood of fatlings freely spill — 

King David danced. 
With linen ephod girt about. 
With trumpet sound and joyful shout, 
What time from Obed-Edom out 
They brought the ark, King David danced. 



120 LYRICS. 

With sackbut, psaltery and cymbal, 
With tabret, pan-pipes, horn and timbrel, 
They play'd a merry roundabout, 
And rais'd on high a joyful shout — 
King David danced. 

Michal, Saul's daughter, heard the shout, 
And from her window glanced out — 
King David danced ! 
She righteously did criticise him, 
" And in her heart she did despise him '*- 
King David danced. 
As Noah danc'd before his ark, 
As Bacchus in the ages dark, 

He leap'd in wildest revelry — 

He skipt, he leapt, he reel'd, he pranc'd, 

Alas for human frailty ! 

King David danced. 
But when in after years we see 
Him bow'd down in his agony, 
And making deep and ceaseless moan, 
" O Absalom, my son, my son ! 
Would God that I had died for thee ! " 
Or wrestling with his enemies. 
Who compass him about with lies. 
Whose tongues were butter, and whose words, 
Softer than oil, were yet drawn swords ; 
Or, later, 'neath the olive tree 
Confessing his humility, 
" Even as a weaned child I be," 
And trusting God, with hps that quiver, 
" Henceforth forever and forever." 
Still later 'neath the Almighty shade 
Abiding, calm, and unafraid 



121 



Of fowler's snare or arrow's flight 
Or terrors that invade the night, 
TrampHng the dragon 'neath his feet, 
Praising God's loving-kindness great, 
Lifting on high his confidence, 
Unterrorized by the advance 
Of the night-creeping pestilence, 
While at his right hand thousands fall, 
And at his left ten thousand — all 
Our indignation melts away- 
Like mist before the rising day ; 
We honor him and love him so, 
That we forgive his phrenzied shout 
What time from Obed-Edom out 
They brought the ark of God — we lean 
On his strong harp and say, What tho', 
When on his knees he should have been, 
King David danced I 

GOD MAKETH A WAY. 

pOR him who is fain to see the light 

God maketh a way, God maketh a way. 
Came Nicodemus in the night. 
Zealous Zaccheus climb 'd the tree, 

Some are so reverential that 

They have only need to watch and wait. 
For him who is fain to see the light, 
For him who is fain to do the right, 

God maketh a way. 



122 LYRICS. 

HYMN. 

pATHER Omnipotent, 

All-good, all-glorious, 
O'er mortal discord 
Thy peace is victorious. 

O Thou omniscient. 
Holy and perfect One, 
Teach us to image Thee 
Thro' thy beloved Son. 

Our earthly idols we 
Too long have serv'd — unbound. 
Now, Hke the Prodigal, 
Husks lying all around, 

Humbly to Thee we turn, 
Thy mercy-seat to prove, — 
Darkness and death below, 
Light and thy grace above. 

Take our unworthiness, 
All that we have to give, 
Be to us what v/e lack, 
Lift us near Thee to live. 

And when earth's veil is rent 
And at Thy throne we kneel, 
Set on our ransom' d brows 
Thine apostolic seal. 

Father Omnipotent, 
All-good, all-glorious. 
O'er mortal discord 
Thy peace is victorious. 



LYRICS. 123 

O Thou omniscient, 
Holy and perfect One, 
Teach us to image Thee 
Thro' thy beloved Son. 

JORDAN. 

rjEEP-SWELLING, muddy, turbulent— 

A noise between two silences — 
'Twixt Alpha and Omega bent, 
A channel for inharmonies. 

Upon thy desolate banks to-day 
No lofty citadels arise, 
No forests spread their majesty 
To mark thine ancient victories. 

What mad ambition could have bent 
Thy curious path, like Satan coiled ? — 
For doth not Jeremiah lament, 
" How is the pride of Jordan spoil'd ! '' 

Here Joshua cleav'd thee with his host — 
Surely some giant palm must fling 
Its shade here — nay ! a nitrous crust, 
Thro' which no grassblade dare upspring. 

Once o'er the desert came a Voice, 
" Make straight the pathway of the Lord ! '* 
But thou pursued'st thy sinuous choice, 
Unmindful of the sacred Word. 

Lo, here the dear baptismal spot, 

The " Bathing Place " of pilgrim fame — 

Ah, Bethabara, one had not 

Known thee but for thy treasur'd name. 



124 LYRICS. 

'Twas here the Pure and Undefiled, 
By way of apostohc grace, 
HumbHng him as a httle child, 
Suffer' d thy wave to sweep His face. 

Certes here blows some asphodel, 
Some lily-bloom, to mark the place 
Where the baptismal water fell 
In sacred drops from His pure face. 

Nay I slime pits, thermal springs, and thistle, 
A few weird stalks of hollyhock. 
While overhead the bitterns whistle. 
Or nest in crags of basalt rock. 

O basest of ingratitude. 
Not to outblossom here thy thanks ! 
But to blaspheme thy bitterest mood 
Against thy cold, unconscious banks. 

And must we cross thee in the end. 
Dark Jordan — brave thy mysteries. 
Or ere our ransom'd souls ascend 
The sacred Beulah-heights of bliss ? 

If in the land of peace wherein 
We trusted, we have weariedly 
Let fall the oars on waves serene. 
How shall we ford thee in that day ? — 

Deep-swelling, muddy, in eclipse, 
A noise between two silences — 
'Twixt Genesis and Apocalypse, 
A channel for inharmonies. 



125 



IN THE MOUNTAINS OF NORTH GEORGIA. 



MIDNIGHT ON THE BALD. 
'yiS midnight on "the Bald"— 

And O ! for Poe and power — 
In a fine rage on Fancy's page 
To flash this matchless hour. 

Lo, where the raven Night 

Doth flap her ebon wing, 
And o'er the edge of the hoar Blue Ridge 

Cimmerian shadows fling — 

Now from 'neath beetling brows 

A lancdd summons thrust, 
Rallying the winds from the earth's four ends 

To meet in tournament-joust. 

Hist, where they come in a trice ! — 

Boreas, Cyclops-wheel' d, 
The foaming East, and the panting West, 

With the eye of Jove in his shield ! — 

And — bravest afield, I trow — 

With shy Eolian sallies. 
The low-voic'd South, with her roseate mouth, 

Trippeth it over the valleys. 
Georgia and Tennessee, 

The Carolina twins, 
And old Alabama, gaze on the drama 

From the surrounding plains. 



126 LYRICS. 

It all began in sport, 

As many a joust of yore, 
In round-table days, but it endeth in craze 

And fuel and duel and gore ! 

** Blood Mountain" gappeth afresh, 

There on her scar-seam 'd side ; 
And " Double Knobs," with throes and sobs, 

Opeth his hell-gates wide. 

Thrice do I see a head 

Of Cerberus protrude. 
Thrice hear a bark, thro' the lurid dark, 

Of hell-hounds thirsting blood. 

With a voiceless prayer I turn 

And lean up thro' the skies 
To the seventh Heaven ; and my soul is shriven 

Straightway of its agonies. 

Joy ! and the world is God's — 
The sweet South is prevailing ! — • 

And calm on the breast of the rainbow' d West, 
Queen Cynthia is sailing. 

CYNTHIA. 

pYNTHIA ! next woman best-lov'd of my muse, 
^ Whose smile, discovering hers, is all I ask 
To prove that heaven sometimes deigns to earth — 
Celestial Arbitress ! who in the same 
Undeviate path mine infant vision traced, 
Pursuest even now thy smiling course 
How dost thou teach a lesson to my soul 
Of perseverance and of constancy ! 



LYRICS. 127 

Who callest thee inconstant doth but view 
Thee superficially — a narrow thought ! — 
Let him but turn back contemplation's eye 
Upon thine ancient record, and he stands 
Abash' d at his misjudgment. 

Fair St thou yet 
Ever to bring the seasons in due course 
Of sequence, throughout all the centuried years 
That thou hast calendar' d in the tome of time ? 
Ever to welcome in the marching months, 
Each at his several mile-post, in their rounds 
Zodiacal ? To pour thy pitying urn 
Of balm on January's winding-sheets ? 
To wave o'er February's miserere 
Thy crystal wand of promise ? with calm gaze 
To charm the savage breast of lion March 
To lamblikeness ? to float thy crescent arc 
O'er April's flood-tide of despondency? 
In sweet May's hyacynthine locks to set 
A silver comb ? to shed thine influence 
In gracious streams on June, thy chosen one? 
To throw an odorous spray of pearly dews 
On July's feverish pillow? or to press 
To August's parched lips an ample urn 
Of golden nectar ? 'Round September's shrine 
To softly swing an incense lamp of prayer ? 
To spread a benediction-halo round 
October's brow, as o'er the harvest fields 
Rejoicingly she came forth, bringing sheaves? 
To badge November's melancholy breast 
With opaline insignia of hope ? 
To pin with topaz brooch December's cloak 
About his shivering limbs as he went down 
The tottering steep to fill his vault of ice ? 



128 LYRICS. 

Or fail'st thou ever yet to bring the tide 
At the appointed hour back to the shore 
Expectant ? Nay ; not even when thou dost hide 
The favor of thy countenance from this spot 
Infinitesimal of God's universe, 
That holds our horoscope, even while thy smile 
Charmeth our sister hemisphere, thy thought 
Is for our vantage and protection. 

Inconstant! Thou art constancy's own mould. 

What tho' thou proteanly adjust thy mood 

To suit thy journeying' s convenience ? 

Thy very phases are reliable 

And spring not unawares, but rather greet 

The anticipatory eye, outvvearied with 

The unvarying roundness of the heavenly host. 

What time thou'rt " new,*' thy crescent symboleth 

hope ; 
What time thou'rt " waxing," thou'rt developing. 
As interesting things must needs be doing ; 
We admire thy "half for that we miss thy whole ; 
Thy glorious " full '' doth challenge optic skill 
By any common measurement to gauge 
Its puzzling amplitude, as it doth mount 
The horizontal distance, backgrounding 
Acres of forests, or outlining clear 
Against its blaze some dim cathedral tower ; 
Thy '' wane " — ah ! thou art loveliest on the wane, 
As all earth's blessings are. How oft we cheat 
The midnight couch of sleep to Avatch thee waste 
Thy lovely self away in heaven's wilds, 
As thou wert grown aweary of the world 
In all its curtain'd sinfulness, and would'st 
Withdraw into thy grave-clothes, lest thou shame. 



LYRICS. 129 

By lingering here, Diana's memory. 

Thy day-ghost fascinates me most of all — 

The very height of its audacity ! 

To face day's very monarch on his throne 

And smiling say, I borrowed beams of thee 

All thro' the night, and now I lend thee back 

These borrow' d rays to help thee light the day ! 

Sweet Cynthia, empress of my dreams ! what tho* 

Thou'rt but a satellite ? since thou dost tend 

Thy part of th' empyrean vineyard well : 

Remove his satellite, our sun is shorn 

Of half his glory — 'twere to clip 

His locks ambrosial on his midnight couch. 

What tho' 'neath scientific scrutiny 

Thy heart be hollow and thy face be scarred 

With ancient warfare ? What tho' on thy brow 

Old Superstition hath instamp'd a man 

Forever burning brush ? The poet's eye 

Seeth thee only as the Lady Moon, 

Fickle, but ever thro' thy fickleness 

Unchanging, constant thro' inconstancy, 

Consistent e'en in inconsistency, 

A charming paradoxical mystery. 

I know a lady so — I love her well — 

Rely upon her utterly, and wait 

With tender interest her to-and-fro 

Excursions o'er my being's horoscope. 

Like Bailey's " Festus " and like thee, fair Queen ! 

She is inconsistent — "so was meant to be'* — 

Hath flung away that overrated jewel. 

Consistency (if e'er she wore it) for 

That pearl of greater price, humility. 

9 - 



130 LYRICS. 

Aye, me ! sweet Cynthia — dost leave me so, 

In very height of rapport with thy charms ? 

'Tis hke thee ! Dost thou with nereidian grace 

Mount yonder sea-horse cloud and bound away 

O'er billowy waves of foam just touched with rose 

By Aurora's finger-tips— dost bound and sink 

Down, down into the liquid depths of space, 

Leaving behind a silver trail of peace? 

Ah ! well — 'tis well ! Thou hast left me thus before. 

Nay ! there she floateth — see her silver crest 

Just rising o'er the foam ! she turneth half 

Her face to me in lingering farewell — 

Her lady face ! for modern fancy hath 

Rebell'd 'gainst ancient superstition, 

Outpluck'd the man and cameo' d there instead 

A lady's classic profile — so I toss 

Thee au revoir, sweet Cynthia, on this kiss. 

OLD FATHER CORN. 
POURSCORE, and feeble of limb, 

He sits in his vine-wreath' d door, 
And smiles and croons his melodious hymn, 
Blest like the hermits of yore. 

Over a life well spent, 

He broods with pious pride, 
His residue of days content 

To rest in the mountain side. 

Within a radius 'round 

Of thirty miles his legions 
Of Baptist tracts have strewn the ground 

Of these benighted regions. 



LYRICS. 131 

Aye, every desert place, 

And bottom-ground plantation, 
Can boast its sinner brought to grace 

Under his exhortation. 

And every mountain-crag 

Hath echoed back his thunder, 
And every creek at least may brag 

One sinner dipp'd down under 

By good old Father Corn. 

Long may this gray-hair' d voyager 
Live to illumine and adorn 

The mountains of North Georgia. 

SONG OF A MOUNTAIN MAIDEN. 
CAPPHO'S hair was black as night, 

When the night is gloomiest ; 
Helen's like a tuft of bright 

Golden-rod when plumiest : 
But nor Sappho in Mytilene, 

Nor Helen yet at Troy, 
Had hair so full of joy, I ween, 

So full of Keats's joy — 
So beautiful forevermore, 

So tender, so myrrh-laden, 
As Ida's gloaming hair — my rare, 

My matchless mountain maiden ! 

Juno's eyes v/ere sapphire-blue, 

Dante's Beatrice's 
Chrysolite, and aquamarine 

Algernon's Felice's ; 



132 LYRICS. 

But, nor the orbs of Jove's delight, 

Of Dante's inspiration, 
Nor Swinburne's guiding stars serene, 

Could glint a scintillation 
(More magical than ever flasht 

From lantern of Aladdin), 
Like Ida's diamond eyes — my rare, 

My matchless mountain maiden ! 

Laura's lips were nectar-red. 

Meet for Petrarch's kisses ; 
Sweet to Swift were Stella's, sweet 

To Waller Sacharisse's ; 
But nor the lips that Petrarch bless' d. 

Nor those that made the Dean glad. 
Nor those that warbling Waller press' d, 

Such fountain's nectarine had, 
A poet's spirit to refresh, 

A poet's heart to gladden, 
As Ida's Eden lips — my rare, 

My matchless mountain maiden ! 

EYES. 
(to music.) 
PYES that dartle, eyes that dare— 

^ O the glory of them ! 
Eyes that startle when I draw near, 

Seeing how I love them — 
Startle and droop and tremble. 

And all but shut out my bliss — 
Then — eyes that cannot dissemble — 



LYRICS. 133 

Draw me in with a kiss, 

Sweet eyes ! 
Draw me in with a kiss. 

Eyes that weave for me mystic spells, 

Eyes that are deep and fearful, ' 
Eyes that could drown me in their wells, 

If they were not too careful— 
That carry me down, down, down. 

In love's divine baptism. 
Only to lift me and crown 

Me at last with love's bright prism, 
Pure eyes ! 

At last with love's bright prism. 

Eyes that soften and glint and glow. 

Like sun-shot dewdrops golden ; 
Eyes that could pierce me thro' and thro' 

Were they not love-beholden— 
Pierce me and turn me and chill me. 

And send me adrift— alone- 
Eyes that could leave me— and kill me. 

If they were not mine own 
True eyes ! 

If they were not mine own. 



134 LYRICS. 



MELODIES IN MINOR KEY. 



ROSEMARY AND RUE. 

" Rosemary, that's for remembrance." — Shakespeare. 
" Rue, herb of grace."— Jeremy Taylor. 

T HAVE a friend. But one behoves. 
I hold it true, on this sad earth, 
One friend a sea of friends is worth. 

Friends change. A friend at all times loves. 

To thee — my Friend — at all times true — 
Whose wound is faithful as thy kiss, 
I offer, in deep tenderness. 

This ring of rosemary and rue, 

From memory-meadows cull'd, on calm 

And solitary starlight eves, 

And press 'd away 'twixt sacred leaves, 
Their bitter-sweet to waxen balm. 

That's for remembrance" — " Rose of Mary," 

Meet emblem of fidelity ; 

And rue, sad flower, worn anciently 
At penitential miserere. 

A crown of bay -leaves might I send. 
Of honor redolent and success — 
But nay ! I ween ' twere valued less 

Than this pale wreath. Take it, my Friend, — 



LYRICS. 135 

Not on thy silver locks to set, — 
Thy threescore years of gentle deeds 
A softer halo 'round thee sheds 

Than ever stream' d from coronet : 

Not as my gratitude's return 

For grace beyond all guerdoning ; 
But as a simple memory-ring 

To hang on Friendship's golden urn. 

PERSIAN SERENADE. 

[Set to music by Edward Von Adelung, of Oakland, Cal.] _ \ 

TN no sadder strain than these 

Lugubrious minor keys 
The bulbul wooes the climbing rose, O Sweet ! 
Yet still to my soft pleading 
Thou turn'st an ear unheeding, 
And wonderest why pride lets me linger at thy feet. 

Sweetheart ! Sweetheart ! 

Why avert those perfect eyes ? 

Sweetheart ! Sweetheart ! 

Take me into Paradise. 

Ah ! would for one fleet hour 
I were the climbing flower, 

And thou the Persian bulbul perch'd upon my stem ; 
In order thou might'st see 
How sweeter 'tis to be 

Prone at Love's feet than crown'd with Pride's pale 
diadem. 

Sweetheart ! Sweetheart ! 

Why avert those perfect eyes ? 

Sweetheart ! Sweetheart ! 

Take me — take me into Paradise. 



136 LYRICS. 



RAIN IN MIDSUMMER. 

'PHE lowering skies were leaden-gray— 

My heart was leaden too. 
" O love," I said, " when hope is dead, 

Which way to look?'' — " Look up," he said. 
But toward the earth I bent my head 
(As you would do if hope were dead) ; 
And, unresisting, 
Kept on twisting 

Wreaths of rue. 

The leaden skies were muttering now — 

My heart was muttering too* 
"O love," I said, " when love is fled, 

Which way to look ?'' — " Look up," he said. 
But lower still I bent my head 
(As you had done with cheeks as red), 
And, still persisting. 
Kept on twisting 
Wreaths of rue. 

The muttering skies were weeping now — 

My heart was weeping too. 
"O love," I said, "if faith were dead, 

Which way to look?" — " Look up," he said. 
And toward the skies I lift mine eyes 
(As you had done had you been wise) — 
And lo ! the riven 
Gates of heaven, 

Barr'd with blue. 



LYRICS. 137 

THE SENSITIVE VISITOR. 

'THE night was bitter. Pride and I 

Sat gazing at it thro' the pane. 
Who can that bold intruder be 
That at our casement draweth rein ! 

We turn our faces, Pride and I. 
And yet — the pleading and the pain 
Of that one look — Nay ! out of view- 
He's pass'd into the night and rain. 

Who could that gallant horseman be ? 
Alas ! to-day 'tis but too plain : 
His name was Opporttmity. 
He never came to us again. 

THE MEADOWLARK. 

T LOVE our melancholy meadowlark ; 
In dirge-like cadency it must excel 
The transatlantic minion, Philomel. 
It waiteth not the lonesome hour of dark 
On its aerial voyage to embark, 
And flood the world with a melodious knell 
Of wailful minors, but its throat will swell 
Even when the sun is at his dizziest mark 
Of splendor, and the flowers with dew unwet, 
And pour its mid-May woes into the heart 
Of men and roses, lest they should forget 
In even the sunniest life death plays a part. 
O for a Keats ! in song to immortahze 
This nightingale of our Columbian skies. 



"THE PATH FROM ME TO THEE THAT 
LEADS." 

'THE path from me to thee that leads, 

With teary seed-pearls thick bestrewn, 
Beneath some vernal silver moon 
Will blossom out in fragrant deeds — 

Not sorrow-thorns nor passion-tares, 

For friendship soweth not such seeds, 

But dreams come true and answer'd prayers — 

The path from thee to me that leads. 

UNDER THE LAUREL. 
T TNDER the laurel, last year's May, 

We sat and talked till the day went out, 
And you bound my temples 'round about 
With a wreath of roses twined with bay — 
Roses for love, and bay for fame — 
For the costliest treasure at life's command, 
A woman's heart, you had laid in my hand — 
And time would bring me a sounding name. 
Under the laurel, hush, ah hush ! 
Memory lurks in the laurel bush. 

Under the laurel breezes blow 
Soft as they did in last year's spring. 
But, oh ! what a different song they sing, 
For, oh ! what a different tale they know. 

" Roses for love, and bay for fame." 

Under the laurel I sit alone 

And Aveave a wreath for a cold gravestone — 

And tiime has brought me the sounding name. 
Under the laurel, hush, ah hush ! 
Memory lurks in the laurel bush. 



LYRICS. 139 

BETWIXT THE MOUNTAIN AND THE MAIN. 

DETWIXT the mountain and the main 

A cloud of mist is creeping — 
And she is high, and he is low, 
And both are softly sleeping. 

She dreameth on love-restless couch 
About her one true lover, 
Who in his vessel silver-sail'd 
The sea is speeding over. 

He lieth 'neath the oozy wave. 
But no deep bell is toUing. 
Betwixt the mountain and the main 
The cloud of mist is rolling. 

The bursting sun, a signal glad, 
Her couch is golding over ; 
She hasteth down the mountain slope 
To meet her one true lover. 

Betwixt the mountain and the main 
The cloud of mist is parted — 
And he is high, and she is low. 
And which is happier-hearted ? 

FLORIDIAN NOCTURNE. 

A MELLOWING moon — an immigrating wind. 

Laden with myrrh, that quickens in the pulse 
A sense of Oriental tamarind, 
Of golden cinnamon and purple dulse. 



140 LYRICS. 

A fallow marshland — hints of wild florescence, 
The cypress' green against the lemon's white ; 
While from palm- thicket comes melodious prescience 
Of perfect days to^be and full delight. 

O love, my love ! the days to be ! — 
Faith's prescient eye hath seen — 
The days to be, for thee and me — 
What recks the might have been ? 

A shred of seaweed tangled in a pearl, 
A sigh of seaweeds wafting a delight 
To where the charitable clouds unfurl 
And fold it evermore from human sight. 

And is it well she lies so stilly calm, 
With orange-buds twined in her hair's soft wave, 
While earth fulfils the promise from the palm, 
And stars and blossoms gleam above her grave ? 

Aye, love, my love, the days to be ! 
Faith's prescient eye hath seen — 
The days to be for thee and me 
V Beyond the might have been. 



J 



LOVE'S WELCOMERS. 

OY and Sorrow (sisters they) 
Hand in hand, one close of day, 
Walk'd the dappled meadows. 
In Joy's footprints dewlights gleamed, 
Sorrow's left behind, it seemed, 
Only streams and shadows. 

Much ado they had, I trow, 
Keeping step — one quick, one slow, 



LYRICS. 14] 

One sad, one happy-hearted ; 
Yet* they are so close of kin, 
Being twin-born, 'twould seem a sin 
If they should be parted. 

" Welcome, Love!" they call together, 
As the sweet boy bursts the ether 
In the wake of Venus. 
" Truth our sire sent us to meet you, 
Truth our sire sent us to greet you, 
And bring you home between us.'' 

BALLAD OF THE BROKEN TROTH. 

"AY me ! " she shivering said, 

And gazed on the sunlit skies aboon. 
Where, clasped in the scorching arms of noon, 
There floated, cold and white, 
The day-ghost of the waning moon, 
All in its hearse-shroud dight — 
All in its hearse-shroud dight. 

" ' Tis a passing thought," she said, 
"Of last year's broken troth, I ween " 

(And I would ye had seen her white face then, 
Ye women who play with the hearts of men !), 
"Which e'en as a mockery floats between 
The rising and the setting 
Of this year's love — what might have been. 
To keep me from forgetting — 
To keep me from forgetting." 

'' But I will forget," she said, 

" Ere the rosebuds ope on another June.'' 

And she warbled a snatch of lancers' tune. 



142 LYRICS. 

Rounding it off with laughter. 

But the pale cold day-ghost of the moon, 

Wrapped in the scorching arms of noon, 

Haunted her ever after — 
Ever and ever after. 

BETWEEN THE LINES. 

" THE past cannot be changed." — No, dear, 

But may be misinterpreted. 
How many life-wrongs righted were 
If this dim page aright we read ! 

If we could read between the lines 
The acts of struggle, thoughts of grace 
(Not limited by our confines 
Of human judgment), how this space. 
Illumined by a hght above. 
Would burst in beauties everywhere, 
And we would blush at our self-love, 
And marvel at our past despair — 
Between the lines. 
Between the lines, 
To see the hidden graces there. 

Then faithful to each fond ideal, 

Let us, sweet friend, turn back in prayer 

And there search out the beings real 

Of which our dreams the ideals are. 

'Balm'd in the Past, pale memory flowers 
Beneath the Present's touch reblush. 
And to make glad the Future's hours 
There stands sweet Art, with harp and brush. 

The past cannot be changed — but, dear, 

How oft misread I We wait for signs. 



LYRICS. 143 

When one deep gaze of faith would clear 
Some mystery between the lines — 
Between the lines, 
Between the lines, 
Some mystery between the lines. 

COMPROMISE. 

(In reverse of Jeau Ingelow's " Divided.") 

TT was just before the river pours into the mam. 

O how we who loved stray so far apart ! 
Said he, " Day closeth — loose the bateau chain, 
Sail over, sail over to me, Sweetheart I " 
Said I, " The distance is not wide — 

Sail thou over to my side." 
Both were right and both were wrong — 
Both were weak and both were strong — 
As lovers are. 

Behind us mourned the ocean, and before the willows 

sigh'd; 
The day was closing starless, and the nightwinds 

made us shiver. 
So far from home, so lonely — but the lover's staff is 

pride. 
And the bateau chains remained unloosed on either 
side the river. 

Said he, " I'll wend love's way alone.'' 
Said I, "Love doth for love atone." 
So he on his side, I on mine, 

Turned our faces tow'rd one shrine — 

Toward love's white star. 

Ah ! but it was dreary, dreary, walking there alone, 
Walking there alone together in our foohsh pride, 



144 LYRICS, 

A passing sea-wind caught a human moan 
And intervvafted it from side to side. 

Feet were sore, and hearts were bursting, 

Unkist Hps for kisses thirsting, 

Still the river roll'd between us, 

And our eyes still fixed on Venus 
Eastering. 

Lo ! dawn's milkwhite steeds are furrowing the orient 

into gold. 
" Sail halfway, love — I'll meet you in the middle of 

the river.'' 
In one breath came two voices. And behold ! 
Venus melting with a quiver 
From the oriental skies 
Rebeams in my lover's eyes. 
And lo ! no bateau need we launch — 
Past river, rivulet, brook and branch. 

We've reach' d the spring. 

FIRST GRIEF. 

T EAVE her alone. She knows the flowers are 

blooming. 
She's saddest when the rose blows reddest now. 
Nay ! weave no roseate coronet for her brow 
And tell her it were regally becoming, — 
She would but feel their thorn-pricks, her redooming, 
Like sharp fate edicts, to unswaging woe ; 
Their red were but a background for her glooming. 
When God's has fail'd, thy comfort were presuming" 
You have not loved and lost. Leave her alone. 

Leave her alone. She knows the birds are singing, 
She's saddest when the birds sino- maddest now. 



LYRICS. 145 

Their passionate cadences are only bringing 
Back mem'ries of a bliss she must forego — 
An ear forever deaf to music's ringing, 
A form beneath the myrtle bough's laid low, 
A foot forever still'd from manhood's springing, 
A heart forever dead to passion's swinging, — 
You have not lost and loved. Leave her alone. 

Leave her alone. She knows the sun is shining. 
She's saddest when the sun shines brightest now. 
Swing not faith's torch 'round griefs midnight re- 
pining, 
'Twill only stagger with its blinding glow. 
Pain's furnace-fires are better for refining, 
Albeit they seem to issue from below. 
Leave her to-day to agony's consigning — 
Leave her to weep, her myrtle garlands twining ; 
God knoweth when to turn the " silvery lining" — 
Christ when to lift her eyes. Leave her alone. 

SONG IN ABSENCE. 

r\ WHERE can I look for the blue of her eyes, 
And where for the silvery light of her hair ? 
I turn in vain to the sunset skies, 
In vain to the blossoming meadows fair — 
Nor hue in heaven, nor hue on lea 
For mine absent one can comfort me. 

where can I look for the white of her hand. 
And where can I go for the balm of her lips ? 

1 turn to the shells on the ocean strand 
To the spicy winds that waft her ships — 

Nor light that lingers on land or sea 
For mine absent one can comfort me. 
lo 



146 



O where shall I list for the chime of her voice, 

And where shall I seek for the gold of her words ? 

Not all the bells of Paradise, 

Nor all the music of all the birds, 
Nor gold of Ophir or Araby, 
Nor hue in heaven, nor hue on lea. 
Nor light that lingers on land or sea 
For mine absent friend can comfort me. 

LAOMI : A DIRGE. 

YUILL ye tell me, O birds of the air, 

Where Laomi is gone ? 
Her voice was as clear as your very own, — 

As soft and as clear 
As silverbells calling to vesper-prayer. 

She was fair — so fair — 

And her hair — 
'Twas the color of dusk that the starlight falls on. 
Did you see her face, did you hear her tone. 
In that beautiful mystical far-away haven to which 
you were flown 

When winter was here ? — 
Will ye tell me, O birds of the air, 
Where Laomi is gone ? 

Will ye tell me, O sweet wild flowers, 

Where Laomi is gone ? 
Her breath was as sweet as your very own. 
And her heart was as deep and as golden as yours. 
Has she wandered off, apart and alone, 
To one of your bowers, 
There amidst showers 
Of sweet-scented petals to lay her down, 
To be charmed and chain'd by the golden hours. 



LYRICS. 147 

And circled away to that magical island that know- 
eth no moan ? 

Will ye tell me, O sweet wild flowers, 
Where Laomi is gone ? 

Will ye tell me, O breezes of even, 

Where Laomi is gone ? 
Her sigh was as sad as your very own, 
When Anemone-riven 
You were, and outdriven 
And banished by P^lora her queen, jealous grown. 
Have you seen Laomi — or heard her moan ? 

Have you woo'd her and shriven 
Her sorrow and given 
Her wings to float off, like your eiderdown, 
Over treetop and hilltop and into the faraway azure 
of heaven ? 

Will ye tell me, O breezes of even. 
Where Laomi is gone ? 

Will ye tell me, O stars of the night. 

Where Laomi is gone ? 
Her eyes were as bright as your very own, 
As soft and as bright ; 
And her hands were as white, 
As tapering and white, [height 

As the wings of the saints that descend Heaven's 
When twilight is flown. 
Have ye envied her eyes' pure topazolite, 
And over their lids an influence thrown, 
That a new Gemini, outrivalling the old, in the 
heavens be sown ? 

Will ye tell me, O stars of the night, 
Where Laomi is gone ? 



148 LYRICS. 

Will ye tell me, O silver-sail'd ships. 

Where Laomi is gone ? 
Her glide was as graceful as your very own, 
As she passed from my presence to pastures unknown. 
Did her sea-shell ears and her coral lips 
Old ocean's gems so far eclipse 
That he snatched her hence ? — Is she now floating on 
His beautiful breast as it rises and dips ? 
Or have the mermaidens allur'd her down to their 
submarine crypts 

To sit on a coraline throne ? 
Will ye tell me, O silver-sail'd ships, 
Where Laomi is gone ? 
Wilt thou tell me, O Heaven (God knoweth), 

Where Laomi is gone ? 
Her soul was as white as the soul of your own 
Saints who have passed from the cross to the crown. 
As a flower that bloweth 
Man Cometh and goeth ; 
To-day he is sown,'] 
To-morrow cut down, 
And even the place thereof is unknown. 
Was she needed above ? Hath an angel downflown 
To uplift, lest her foot be dashed on a stone, 
And bear her away to that river thatfloweth, 

Floweth by God's White Throne — 
On and on — 
On to a blissful endless end where no boat roweth — 
Wilt thou tell me, O Heaven (God knoweth), 
Where Laomi is gone ? 



149 



THOU ART TO ME. 

(Set to music by Signor Aldo Guiseppe Randegger.) 

'THOU art to me a light- 
But for thy guidrng ray 
My pilgrim feet would stray 
Away from right. 

Thou art to me a balm, 
An incense-lamp for Art, 
Burning upon my heart 
Steady and calm. 

Thou art to me a prayer — 
A living orison. 
Mounting each day upon 
Heaven's unseen stair. 

Thou art to me a voice — 
Of all earth's cadences 
Tuned to the softest keys ; 
A poet's choice. 

Thou art to me — And I ? — 
Love doth for love atone. 
Ah ! leave me not alone 
In this cold world to die. 

Be what thou art to me — 
My light, my balm, my voice. 
Heaven would not be my choice 
Except with thee. 



150 



AT MOUNT ENOTA'S LAUREL' D BASE. 
AT Mount Enota's laurel'd base, 

Where Hiawassee's waters flash, 
'Twas there I met a mountain grace, 
Beautiful Ida Ash. 

As o'er the rocks, nereidianly, 

She moved, with Hssom step and proud, 
Her eyes gleam'd like the Gemini 

Beneath a shifting summer cloud. 

The east-wind left its mourning cave 
To nestle, dove-hke, in her locks; 

Tamed by her gtep, each madcap wave 
Caress'd the conscious rocks. 

The skylarks left their aery thrones 

Amidst the serenading stars, 
To catch her accent's Orphean tones 

And beat its elegiac bars. 

" Ah, I have sigh' d to rest ;;?<?,'' sang 
She from // Trovatore ; and thro' 

A poet's heart the echo rang, 

""Ah, I have sigKd to rest me, too." 

Sweet Ida Ash ! life's hills are steep, 
And Art a glad toil at its best ; 

Then rest thou in my heart, and I 
Sweetly in thine will rest. 

Teach me to sing as thou dost live, 

A simple life of love and duty; 
Then I at least to Art may give 

One song of everlasting beauty. 



SONNETS. 



151 



SONNETS 



A- TEAR. 
A CHEMIST took a human tear and made 

A nice analysis thereof. Saline, 
So many parts ; with hydro-oxygen 
Admix' d, so much. To a drop of water add 
A grain of salt — and there the tear you had — 
Of little worth — in fact, 'twas useless, when 
The ocean teem'd therewith. A poet then, 
Who listening stood, and knew it had been shed — 
This tear — by a mother, did thus analyze 
It silently. Of joy, so many parts ; 
With travail, patience, and self-sacrifice 
Admix' d so much. Take a heartful of bliss — 
Stir in experience — and there it is. 
Its worth? The fountain whence faith's ocean starts. 

PRETTY-BY-NIGHTS. 
"CVEN as a child I had my favorites 

Among the flowers. Most children have, I think. 
Some take to buttercups ; to some the pink 
Is most adorable. My pet delights 
Were, violets first, and then — the pretty-by-nights ! 
How blissfully at twilight would I sink 
In the cool grass, with wimpleful, and link 
Chain after chain of yellows, reds and whites — 

153 



154 SONNETS. 

And, O ! the variegated — did they grow 

Once in the skies ? — I made so many guesses — 

Maybe God dropt them o'er the rainbow's rim. 

All on a separate charmstring they must go, 

To ring into a rainbow-crown for him 

Who soon would meet me at the gate with kisses. 

A LITTLE BOY. 
A LITTLE boy I know, so bright of face, 

So dimpled-sweet, so bubbling o'er with mirth, 
He seems a brooklet gushing from the earth, 
And gurgling softly now o'er pebbly place. 
And bounding now o'er tiny precipice. 
Please God, may he yet be some noble firth. 
And wash to shore the pearls of goodliest worth 
That undiscover'd lie at ocean's base — 
Some strong arm of the sea, where argosies 
Of lofty purposes may safely steer 
Their freight to God's eternal ocean-pier. 
Bound on, brave little brook ! so blithe, so merry — 
Gain strength for burdens here, and beyond the skies 
Be of the River of Life a tributary. 

A LITTLE MAID. 
A LITTLE maid I know, so dainty-fair. 

So cunning-arch, so sunning o'er with sweets. 
Who when her ** Nama " comes, with kisses greets 
Her on her hands and on her silver hair. 
And leads her laughing to an easy-chair. 
Then in her lap her fairy form she seats, 
And holds her close, so close their two heart-beats 



SONNETS. 155 

Seem doubled one. And gazing on them there, 
Love-lockt, and all unconscious of my bliss, 
Love-lockt, love-loos 'd, and bartering kiss for kiss, 
Youth's gold with wisdom's silver intermixt — 
I stand as one enraptur'd and transfixt, 
So part of very heaven seems the scene. 
If angels visit earth, 'tis here, I ween. 

LIFE'S PARADOX. 
HTHEY are the happiest who know most pain. 

In even the saddest life to every tear 
A thousand smiles are shed. Our rainiest year 
Has more of sunshine in it than of rain. 
Joy's golden ring o'ermeasures Sorrow's train. 
Ah ! point me out that form which o'er the bier 
Has longest lingered, shaking in sincere 
Exuberancy of grief — has oftest lain 
Upon a noonday couch in ecstasy 
Of midnight wretchedness — and I will say, 
There lies the heart that beats the quickest time 
'Neath Love's soft finger-touch. Capacity 
For suffering is but that for joying. They 
Who sound woe's depths, the heights of rapture climb. 

GRANDMOTHER'S GARDEN. 
I. 

PRANDMOTHER'S garden was the sweetest spot 

Ever I walk'd in on a summer's day ! 
Sweeter than violets, or new-mown hay, 
Sweeter than Eden asphodels, I wot. 
If all the Oriental zephyrs brought 



156 SONNETS. 

Their spicy stores from blessed Araby 

And pour'd them at my feet, I would turn away 

If from Grandmother's garden I but caught 

One faintest whiff. And then, that clean white walk — 

Swept every morn, or e'er she wander' d down it, 

With her pet flowers to have a sunrise talk; 

Those blackberry-rows and raspberry-rows, so trim; 

The sage, coriander, mint, and sweet wild-thyme — 

Grandmother's garden was a perfect sonnet ! 

II. 
'THE double-quatrain was, eight rows of corn, 

lam'd with reds and yellows, blues and greens 
Of lesser vegetables, by which means 
One pass'd thro' unsprinkl'd on a dewy morn ; 
Hollyhocks, ruby and golden, did adorn 
The alternate ends with rhymes, to which a queen's 
Ear might have paus'd to listen — or a dean's 
Fresh from an Easter choral. Not a thorn 
Or thistle dared discordant foot to set 
Amidst the harmony of that sextette. 
Amethyst mad-apples, chrysoprasus pears, 
Emerald asparagus, beryl Delawares — 
Sweet as the manna that came down to Moses — 
And that last rainbow line of diamond roses ! 

III. 
GRANDMOTHER'S bonnet was inviolate white- 
White like her robe, her hair— white like her soul : 
Against it the Bride roses' white was dull. 
And the Pearl roses, yellow as chrysolite ; 



SONNETS. 157 

"La France's " cameo, a peach-blow bright ; 
The "Sunset's " amber phik, a beautiful 
Deep after-glow ; and when she stoop' d to cull 
A "Jacqueminot " the acme was reached quite 
Of perfect contrast : black were more at home 
Against her sorrowing white than red or yellow. 
But, ah ! the background that did most become 
Grandmother in her garden, were the hues 
That fell iridescent from the " Rainbow " rose — 
All that her pure brow lack'd was just that halo. 

IV. 

PRANDMOTHER'S garden was so generous. 

Brides got their bouquets there, and altar-bells ; 
Sickbeds, their cheer and solace ; funerals, 
Their wreaths and anchors. Lovers might discuss 
Within its bowers their plans felicitous. 
And dainty children thro' its fairy dells 
Ramble and pick their choice of asphodels 
And berries. And with what magnanimous 
Right hand were heap'd its baskets for the poor, 
The left hand all-unknowing ; with what grace 
It kept supplied the sacred fireside vase, 
Each morning with fresh frankincense and myrrh ; 
And with what golden pride and purple state 
It crown' d the honor' d guest within the gate ! 



158 SONNETS. 

LEIGH HUNT, MY BIRD. 
I. 
T CALL my bird Leigh Hunt, because he sings 

So cheerfully in prison. It is meet 
That Poesy, to bear out the conceit, 
Give him a garden ; so I stick green things 
About him boweringly. See how he swings 
On yonder mimic bush, his pink-ribb'd feet 
Quivering beneath him with sensation sweet 
Of new-found freedom, and his dainty wings 
(Lo, how he spreads them fan-like in the sun !) 
Seem like a patch of silken moonlight spun. 
Leigh Hunt, my Bird ! look not beyond the stars, 
And pine to skim with larks the aerial blue. 
Leigh Hunt, the Poet, made his prison-bars 
A Paradise : and so will I make yours for you. 

II. 
T EIGH HUNT, my Bird, he hath a sunny soul, 

And prone, I think, by nature, to content. 
What tho' the Destinies have cruelly pent 
Him thus within a little gilded hole? — 
Shall he for this espouse his tongue to dole. 
And all his melody in wails be spent ? 
Yet sometimes I misdoubt this glad ostent 
His heart is breaking, and mine own is full 
With fellow-feeling ; sometimes he grows sad 
And hangs his head, and when I say, "Sing sweet! " 
Draws only from his breast a low '' tu-weety 
Leigh Hunt, my Bird ! Leigh Hunt, the Poet, had 
His love in prison with him. That is why 
He never lonesome grew, as you and I. 



SONNETS. 159 

MY SHAKESPEARE. 
MY Shakespeare. Golden privilege, thus to thy 

Death-daring name the symbol to prefix 
Of my possessing. Doth the coupling vex, 
Seeming irreverent, thy memory? 
Nay, thou art mine. When God the world had brought 
Thro' her sixth labor, perfect in all parts. 
He sent thee down — celestial after-thought — 
To gather up and save His children's hearts. 
And thou didst pick them up and 'twixt the pages 
Of an immortal tome as relics press, 
Where they will linger thro' the unnumber'd ages, 
To draw man's laughter, wonder, and distress. 
And, great Heart-Gatherer ! so sublime thine art 
Thou reach'd'st out o'er the years and caught'st my 
heart. 

WORDSWORTH. 

A SIMPLE man; who lov'd life's quiet ways, 

Who found a friend in every flower and bird. 
And in each passing breeze a music heard. 
To weave in song-chains for his linked days. 
A sensuous man ; whom every varying phase 
Of nature with a sacred import stirr'd; 
Yet nothing pantheistic in his word — 
To one revealed God is all the praise. 
A passionate man ; who yet in calm control 
Pleld every deep emotion of the soul : 
His tears his wisdom never overran — 
We feel, not see, the emotion running thro' it. 
Wordsworth — a simple, sensuous, passionate man — 
An ideal type— a very Milton's poet. 



160 SONNETS. 

MRS. BROWNING. 
piRST woman singer. Strongest of the weak, 

Weakest in body of the strong in soul ; 
Whose genius, flashing 'thwart, from pole to pole, 
The firmament of poesy, left a streak 
Of light will shed its influence whilst we speak 
* ' The tongue which Shakespeare spake. " If o' er the 
Where geniuses their honor' d names enroll, [scroll 
When they have climb'd fame's utmost mountain-peak, 
I were permit to pass mine eye and choose 
A name to leave behind me when I die, 
Elizabeth Barrett Browning would it be — 
For aye God-dedicated to the Muse. 
But if her spotless path my feet might lead, 
I'd ask of Fame no crowning laurel meed. 

BROWNING. 
T MUST confess a preference for her. 

The purest sparks he left us, to my thought, 
Are those fine dartling reds and blues he caught 
From her who was professedly his star. 
Howbeit, so esteeming, I would not debar 
His lofty memory of one tiniest jot 
Of deep-earn' d homage. If his muse had wrought 
No other miracle than the rhythmic snare 
Wherein was meshed that woman's vestal heart. 
She would have mark'd herself a master muse. 
But should the poet play logician's part 
And poet's too? I can but wish, sometimes^ 
He had winnow'd out the logic from his rhymes— 
Or the rhymes from his logic, as you choose. 



SONNETS. IGl 

TENNYSON AND LONGFELLOW. 
TF poets, like disciples, go in pairs. 

Then is my pair well-sorted — Tennyson 
And Longfellow. In what sweet unison 
Their spirits soared ! — what mutual smiles and tears 
They shed, thro' all those serenading years 
The Atlantic roU'd between them. When the crown 
Of England paus'd to lay on brow of one 
The wreath of peerage, she, not unawares, 
Did honor to that ever-during name, 
Victoria. It were Columbia's shame 
Had she, being like invested, left unlaid 
Like wreath on the other's brow. Peer him she did — 
With love. To day beneath the Stars and Stripes 
The Psalm of Life sounds on a million lips. 

GRAY. 
'PHEY came across a faded manuscript 

Of Gray's — time-yellow' d, crumpled, mildewpied — 
Husk that the Elegy had cast aside 
When forth it fruited perfect. Here was dipt 
The fungus sentiment, and there outslipt 
The phrase ambiguous ; here fortified 
The tottering idea, and there applied 
Art's emery till Promethean lustre leapt 
From hackney' d gem of thought : so interlined, 
So marginalia-strewn, 'twere hard to find 
Where lapsed the lucid theme. Less priz'd therefore ? 
Nay, rather priz'd an hundredfold the more. 
Ne'er yet Pierian font gusht crystal forth 
That had not toil'd thro' rock-beds under earth. 



162 SONNETS. 

LANIER. 
MUSIC and Poesy, by some sweet chance, 

Met in the Valley of Humiliation. 
Folded their wings were ; in deep meditation 
Each hung a head, and made slow advance. 
Never a motion made they for a dance — 
Never a hint to enter conversation ; 
Only alow, scarce-utter' d lamentation, 
Each gazing sad in other's countenance. 
Music was searching for a word — alas, 
So long had been the quest ; and Poesy 
Was searching for a sound. A tear — 
A mutual tear — upon the fragrant grass 
They dropt, and kist, and parted. Presently 
Upsprung a pure- white asphodel— Lanier. 

"AFTER SORROW'S NIGHT." 
MOT many birds have made homes in the trees 

That border my song-garden. Many light, 
And flute a fancy, or a berry bite. 
Then wing them otherwhere on some soft breeze 
That beckons. Haply 'tis the cypresses 
Whose gloom lets in too scantily heaven's bright. 
Or else the weeping willows, that invite 
Not serenaders — or the draperies 
Of moss that veil my roses from the blight 
Of southern sun. Ah, but nathless there are 
Some rare sweet song-birds here, — some from afar. 
Over the centuries and the seas, have flown ; 
Others from climes Columbian — of these, one — 
Gilder — most soothes me after Sorrow's night. 



SONNETS. 163 

COWPER'S MARY. 
T THOUGHT once of the women who had been 
The beacon-hghts of bards — whose influent ray 
For years had guided them, by night and day, 
Safe 'round the glittering vortices of sin, 
And thro' the echpses of bereavement, when 
The spirit travailetli : in whose constancy 
Their souls, being pois'd, had mounted patiently 
And surely upward into heaven's serene. 
So retrospecting, rose the visions fair 
Of that immortal lady Florentine — 
Of Dante's Beatrice Portinari, 
Who enter' d him into the life divine ; 
And Petrarch's Laura, with her eyes of prayer ; 
And — gentlest, tenderest, truest- Co wper's Mary. 

MILTON'S DAUGHTERS. 
TF ours such bliss is at this distance wide 

Communing with thee, Milton, how tenfold 
The joy of those two who did sit and hold 
Thy blind hands pulsing ; or did eager guide 
Them to thy sacred harp, not unallied 
To harps angelic, when with visions bold 
Thy spirit burst its earth-bands, and out-roU'd 
In golden fullness floodtide on floodtide 
Of melody majestic ; or did dive 
With thee antiquity's dim ocean-caves 
For sacred pearls, or mythologic coral ; 
Or did, with womanly and sensitive 
Fingers, enwreathe thy tresses' silvery waves, 
Over thy sightless brows, with redolent laurel. 



164 SONNETS. 

EMMA HAHR. 
A MIRACLE. A veiled rhapsody. 

What angel left the gates of Heaven ajar 
That thro' the portal there should waft a bar 
Of the great Symphony of the To-Be ? 
A winged measure of divinity — 
Fallen in our midst in veil of Emma Hahr. 
Earth leaps towards Heaven, her elements at war 
See horrid Clamor skulk — Discordancy 
Creep to his lair — Mirth swoon into her grave — 
All nature throbs — the sweet-voiced birds are shy- 
The shell withholds its message from the wave — 
The winds go whispering, " A mystery ! " — 
Whilst old Pythagoras from his distant sphere 
Leans worldward with his star-attuned ear. 

WASHINGTON. 
IVrOT to our Country's father, deep-rever'd, 

Nor to her Capital of wide renown, 
But to a modest little Georgia town, 
My monumental sonnet is now reared. 
An Eden : here the most fastidious bird 
Of Paradise might find a nest of down. 
An Arcadie : here Hesper might have sown 
The Garden of Hesperides, where star'd 
The apples of pure gold upon the trees ; 
But here need not have labored Hercules 
To slay the guarding dragon. Air so pure 
No fiend could breathe an hour, and endure ; 
Nor Greed's own self could cast a covetous eye 
On this fair bower of Generosity. 



SONNETS. 165 

A GEORGIA GLOAMING. 

A UTUMN. That hour of grace when moon and sun 

Each full in other's face serenely gaze 
Across a charmed world. ' Twere vain to trace 
The lines where sunlights into moonlights run, 
So subtle is the interfusion 
Of gold and silver, gentle greens and grays, 
And dying rose. A silken filmy lace 
Of white diaphanous cloud, Arachne-spun, 
Is portier'd o'er th' horizon's western gate: 
One white-torch' d vestal enters ; others wait, 
Timid, till Dian sweep the curtains wide, 
Upon a variegated hillock-side. 
Under the serenading pines, I roam. 
And in this pilgrim world feel strangely at home. 

A FLORIDA AFTERGLOW. 
nVER against a gloom of cypresses, 

A long cold stratum of pale saffron sheen ; 
O'er this, thin layers of sapphire and aquamarine — 
Now melting to a tender opal haze — 
Now dulling to a morbid chrysoprase — 
Now bright' ning to a sanguine emerald green — 
Now soft' ning to an amethyst serene — 
Now deepening to an ominous topaz — 
Now firing to a passionate ruby red, 
Which o'er the heav'ns doth instantly outspread, 
As naval battle-blood spilt on the seas 
Incarnadines the ambient waves. Now white 
Hesper advanceth, with th' Hesperides, 
And, without twilight courtesy, 'tis night. 
Lake Minnehaha. 



166 SONNETS. 

CHRISTMAS AT LOCH KATRINE. 

MOT Scottish Loch Katrine, but Loch Katrine 

In Flora-land. A thousand Christmas trees, 
Swing golden bounty to the bounding breeze, 
Till the white sand is dotted with the green 
And red and yellow of lime, tangerine. 
And orange. (With their hoarded treasuries, 
Grape-fruit and shaddock groan : One sometimes 

sees 
The groaning rich so hoard their wealth, which, when 
Thieves break thro' and steal it, proves a bitter- 
sweet.) 
With all this generous outlay at my feet ; 
With all that gives the senses pleasant taste, 
And feeds the heart — friends, books, birds, flowers 

galore, — 
The thought comes o'er me of the northern poor, 
To whom what God-send were this lavish waste ! 

YALAHA-ON-ASTATULA. 

VALAHA-ON-ASTATULA— interpreted, 

"Sweet Orange on the Lake of Sunbeams." 
How 
Those Indian names out-music ours ! I trow 
Some ichor mingles with the warlike red 
In their barbarian veins. Pan might have led 
His shepherds forth to such a spot. And O ! 
What choice of reeds he had found here to blow ; 
And how his bees had suck'd yon lotus-bed. 
And in these wild magnolias held grand court, 



SONNETS. 167 

Or, cloyed with revelry, had restful swung 
On yonder flaming vine of Devil's Tongue, 
Or drows'd on Spanish Bayonet's bright edge ; 
And just beyond that marge of lush green sedge. 
His fishermen had found what royal sport ! 

"ONCE IN MIDWINTER WOODS IN FLORA- 
LAND." 
QNCE in midwinter woods in Flora-land 
I found a violet hiding 'neath a heart. 
Dear modest thing ! I said, how like thou art 
To one I know, and hold in reverend 
Affection — one who her sweet life doth spend 
In calm retiracy — doth dwell apart. 
Like Wordsworth's Lucy. Yet — as thee — the alert 
Poet is quick to espy her and to band 
The globe with her encomiums — aye ! since 
The modest wield the largest influence. 
If every pillow that upholds my faith 
Were swept to earth in one wild tide of doubt, 
Still would the fragrance of her life creep out 
Amidst the ruins and rescue me from death. 

*'AS DAY BY DAY I SEEK SOME SYLVAN 
ISLE." 
A S day by day I seek some sylvan isle, 

More solitary than the one before, 
To sonnet my Beloved, angels oar 
My shallop for me, and I seem the while 
To be alone in heaven, with heaven's smile 



168 SONNETS. 

Beaming soft sanction down, what time I pour 
My heart out at the feet of one I adore 
With tender reverence. Rhyming so, I toil 
Not, for the vesper zephyrs plash serene 
Amongst the water-Ulies and the sedge 
Lilteth a measure for my thoughts, that pledge, 
And swing, and tilt, and nothing hindereth, 
Like golden goblets on the jasmine-vine — 
Just pouring out the bliss God fill'd them with. 



GRACE. 

T^HAT influent subtlety, intangible, 

Which charms, we know not why, we care not 
how. 
Saints condescend before it, monarchs bow, 
And poets (Heaven help us) prostrate fall, 
O'ercome at unawares — aye, give up all 
Besides for it, and count loss gain, if so 
We may but blissful hover to and fro 
About it, and may feel the rhythmical 
Wave of its breath, or touch the fragrant hem 
Of its white garment : even on the ground 
Whence it hath vanish' d will we sit and twine 
Sad garlands, rather than with diadem 
Of glittering gold and diamonds be crown' d, 
Or bend the knee at any other shrine. 



SOiNNETS. 169 

HER EYES. 
A DOWN into the depths of thy true eyes 

One only needs to look to trust in thee, 
For there dwell sadness and sincerity, 
Just as they followed Eve from Paradise. 
If e'er and anon upon their surface lies 
Mirth, in a semblance-garb of sovereignty, 
She glisters there a moment bubblingly, 
Then glints away in laughterful surprise, 
Seeing she did mistake her proper sphere. 
And so with Coquetry and Pride and Scorn — 
They can but scintillate with transient flashes 
From 'neath those lids — Ah ! nothing as a tear 
(Albeit thy Hfe hath not yet spent its morn) 
Is so becoming to those drooping lashes. 

HER HAND. 
A SONNET to her hand. My harpsichord. 

Had I but such an one to sweep thy keys, 
Then might I set about, less ill at ease, 
A task which, to my fingers, seems absurd 
As painting Shakespeare's lily. Harp ne'er stirr'd 
To such a hopeless cadence. Bossy frieze 
Beneath the chisel of Praxiteles 
Show'd not such cunning curves. There is no word 
Save snow to call its whiteness by — and snow 
Forsooth, is pulseless, cold. Till thou, like me, 
Had'st felt its palpitant warmth, thou would'st not 
How poor this best comparison would be. [know 
Her hand — too white and tender to emboss, 
But not too tender-white to bear a cross. 



170 SONNETS. 

"SINCE OUR SOULS CROSSED." 
CINCE our souls crossed, sweet soul, my soul hath 
In the Eternal Now, — no might have been, [dwelt 
No was, no will be, but the great serene 
It is — Light is, Life is, Love is : I felt 
It at the moment at thy side I knelt, 
And when I awak'd and gaz'd around, 'twas seen — 
God's kingdom in this beauteous land terrene, — 
Not in one chosen spot, one narrow belt. 
But outstretch' d o'er the world — which is not sad, 
Which is not hopeless, is not woe-predoom'd. 
But by the fire of faith updrawn, consumed 
Into Truth's sun, upleapeth and is glad. 
It is — Light is. Life is, Love is — and even 
Now dwell we in the kingdom of His Heaven. 

A SONG TO COOL MY LADY. 
A SONG to cool my lady. Let it be 

All made of breezes, shades, and fountain spray — 
A flower or two — white flowers — roses, say — 
Pale climbing roses, of faint fragancy 
And broad green leaves ; a gentle melody — 
Birili's Cradle Song, or two or three 
Measures from Schubert's Serenade in E ; 
A passage from Longfellow's Rainy Day ; 
Sidney Lanier's Last Sigh ; a revery 
Of sails upon the soul's Vesuvius Bay ; 
A night-wind rustling thro' a myrtle tree ; 
A silver glimpse into futurity ; 
A veil of cameo o'er an emerald sea ; 
Shadows of snow-clouds on a moonlit lea. 



SONNETS. 171 

SLEEP. I. 
A T midnight Sleep, the mocker, came to me — 

My best friend turn'd to foe ! — and o'er my bed 
Dallied his poppied wand, but took a heed 
Lest it should touch mine eyelids — I could see 
It hovering there like the apple on the tree [said. 
When Tantalus reach'd in vain. " Sweet friend," I 
"Draw nearer — touch me with thy charmed reed — 
Sprinkle mine eyes with lotus pot-pourri — 
Mine aching temples cool with Lethe-spray — 
Let but thy soporific finger-tips 
O'er pass my brow — or thy mesmeric lips 
Breathe on my pillow." — "Nay! my sweet one, nay !" 
(As out into the shimmering night he flies) 
"Bid Poesy kiss to thy wakeful eyes." 

SLEEP. II. 
AT daydawn Sleep, relenting, came to me — 

My old, old comrade Sleep, came as of old — 
Came gliding swiftly o'er my glad threshold. 
Whose door had known his tread and turn'd the key 
Of welcome — came, and O, so tenderly 
Did kiss mine eyelids down, and warm my cold 
Hands 'twixt his pulsing own, and close enfold 
Me in his downy arms. O Araby 
The Blest ! thou hast no balm like this ! 
No sails like this down the Vesuvius Bay ! 
No bed of autumn leaves so soft, I wis, 
In Valambrosian vales — as when sweet sleep 
In golden odors did my senses steep 
And bring me rest that morn — and dreams of thee ! 



172 SONNETS. 

''IN EVERY HEART SOME NOBLE NERVES. 

THERE ARE." 
TN every heart some noble nerves there are, 

Which touch'd upon by jest recoil with shock. 
*Twixt ridicule, that only lives to mock, 
And that pure laugh that cheers — what gulf is there ! 
If from my soul arises one deep prayer 
Unceasingly, it is that God may lock 
The gate-ways of mine ears to all who knock 
There with unbrotherly messages, and bar 
The portal of my lips from letting out 
Those imps of ridicule and ghouls of doubt 
That will at times in every breast arise. 
God-fus'd in us, as colors in the flowers, 
Our feelings are our own — all that are ours — 
Which only God, and time, can alchemize. 

TO SONNET-BUILDERS : A MESSAGE. 
T OWE you apology for thus venturing. 

Allegiance drives me to it, and pure love 
Of Art, my queen. Certes it doth behoove 
Me, her most loyal handmaiden, to bring 
A message to her subjects. Murmuring 
Is not my gift : if I malfeasance prove, 
'Tis only at the instigation of 
Her whom I serve. It is a simple thing, 
This message I now read, by her command, 
To sonnet-builders : — Starl not in the skies 
To build your stately inansio7ts, Chine se-wisCy 
Dozan-rushing headlong to a bed of sand ; 
But lay you first a wise foundation down, 
Then lift your polish'' d columns one by one. 



SONNETS. 173 



THE PIERIDES. 



CLIO, MELPOMENE AND CALLIOPE. 

JN dreams thro' Tevnpe's vale I took my stroll^ 

And met the Pierides — in groups of three 
And two. First Clio, muse of History, 
Holding her cithara and half open' d scroll : 
Close at her right, with fnask, and parchment roll, 
And club of Hercules, was Melpomene, 
Vine-wreath' d and buskin-shod for tragedy ; 
Whiles on her left arm leaned the beautiful 
Mother of Orpheus, Calliope— queen 
Of Homer's soul — with epic pen, 
Atid close-roll' d tablet. Charmed-wise ^ 
I gaz'd on this great classic trinity. 
Bui when each held a goddess hand to me 
For tribute — wavering, I let fall inine eyes. 

QUEEN SOUTH. 

"HTHEN our fair South was young and olden-new, 

Her sunny curls by passion yet unshorn, 
To her red lips she laid the sounding horn. 
And to her banquets all the nations flew, 
And all the four winds of the heavens blew 
Praise of her purple bounty. Alas, one morn 



174 SONNETS. 

She fell, our queen. A brother king, twin-born. 
Question' d her right-of-way, challeng'd her, drew 
From her unyielding waist the key of keys 
Wherewith she unlock' d her treasure. There were 

left 
Others upon her girdle, and with these. 
Fitting them here and there, with fingers deft, 
Tho' bleeding still, she pass'd from door to door, 
And oped new vaults of wealth undream' d before. 

ATLANTA. 
THIRST Lady of the South ! Thy diamond eyes 

Full many a suitor lure, as did of old 
Fair Atalanta's — but, as hers, still hold 
Them at proud distance, till one win the prize 
In conquering foot-race. Prithee now, be wise — 
Be circumspect, sweet maiden ! lest some bold 
Foreign Hippomenes, with apple of gold 
Roll'd off the track, thy charmed eye entice, 
And so win first the goal, and claim thy lips — 
Rightfully ours, who hew'd thy woods primeval, 
Thy virgin valleys fiU'd, and hills made level — 
And now thine international gates unlock. 
Give royal entrance unto all who knock — 
But save thy kisses for the Stars and Stripes. 

EDISON. 
T ATE, led by Edison, I stood upon 

The Mount of Progress — in its western wing — 
And there did hap so passing strange a thing 
As doth, meseems, deserve the setting down. 



SONNETS. 175 

Before me pass'd three figures, one by one. 

First, a boy cherub, who did dance and sing, 

Disporting in a wise so rolHcking, 

" Certes," cried I, " that's Cupid ! " Edison 

Said, "Nay, that's Time''' Next, hobbhng, came 

A dwarf, so shrunk of form, so pinch'd of face. 

"That's Death!" I shudder' d. "Nay," said he, 

''t\iQ.V^ Space:' 
An angel, last, with robes so dazzling-white, 
"Ah ! " burst I forth, "no need that vision name — 
That's Life." "Nay," answer'd Edison, "that's 
Night:' 

A STORM. 

MID-SEA. A million stars. The vessel's name 

Is Harmony ; the Captain, Equipoise ; 
The crew. Endurance, Silence, Faith, and Joy's 
Twin daughters. Peace and Laughter. Thro' the 

gleam 
Of Milky Way downdarts a blue-edged flame 
Of forked fury, follow' d by a noise 
Of thunder-wheels. Old Ocean in a trice 
Accepts the challenge, and upspouts a stream 
That outs the stars. Now horrid war prevails, 
And Chaos revels. Equipoise o'erboard. 
Tottering, falls ; Peace brandishes a sword ; 
Endurance swoons away ; and Laughter wails ; 
While Faith, blaspheming, turns to Infidel, 
And Silence lifts a shriek that startles hell. 



176 SONNETS. 

A CALM. 
FjAWN. Not a star. The birds still think it night. 

The insects, subtler, feeling day's approach, 
Have still'd their tiny harps. I feel the touch 
Of something on my cheek : it is the white 
Lake-mist arising, like an acolyte 
For matin mass, or ere the world encroach 
On holy hour. Now from her silver coach, 
Drawn by grey steeds in sober livery dight, 
Sad-eyed Aurora peers, as in a dream. 
The reins fall'n from her hands. In this pale beam, 
I see a mesh of thistledown at poise 
In mid-air, motionless. I hear a noise. 
I turn : a dewdrop from the o'erhanging brake 
Hath plasht upon the surface of the lake. 



A 



COMPOSURE. 
LURID battle-plain - the crucial pitch 



Of arms betwixt two nations match' d to a man. 
A circling cloud, brewing a hurricane. 
With mutterings weird as those of Macbeth's witch- 
Now with Cyclopian oaths and shrieks eldritch 
Its seething pot upsetting on the plain. 
That liquid choler flows thro' rear and van 
And o'er the slaughter' d loved ones in the ditch. 
Behold, whiles earth and skies are warring thus, 
Like feudal ranks of the Satanic band, 
Within the crater of Vesuvius, 
Her first-born clinging to her milkless breast, 
A mother refugee lies down to rest. 
As in the hollow of the Almighty hand. 



SONNETS. 177 

POLYHYMNIA AND URANIA, 
'J^HE twain that greeted now my lifted eyes 

Were Polyhymnia and Urania. Fair 
Indeed they were : one held a lyre of rare 
Exquisite workmanship — the pure device 
Of her own genius — which in pensive wise 
She brush' d, and raised her azure eyes in prayer — 
First of all mundane goddesses to dare 
Approach the most high gods with melodies ; 
The other in her right hand held a sphere 
Celestial, pointi?ig to it with her lefty 
As if to indicate the god to whom 
Her sister paid her adoration. There 
I paused enraptured, and my hand was swift 
To lay at feet of each a laurel bloom. 

HESPER. 
A MBITIOUS orb ! thou usherest in the night 
E'en ere the golden dust by Phoebus' train 
Rais'd in the west hath settled in the main ; 
E'en ere Diana's self dare claim her right 
Of way into her special realm, thy white 
Incense-breathing lantern thou art fain 
To swing out in the heavens. Charles' Wain 
Is not so aspiring ; nor the diamond-bright 
Orion ; nor Aldebaran, flaming eye 
Of Taurus ; nor the yoked Gemini ; 
Nor Cassiopeia's Chair illuminous ; 
Nor Sickle's glittering curve ; nor Sirius, 
With his swift-scorching scintillations ; 
Nor Milky Way, with its quintillion suns. 

12 



178 SONNETS. 

THE OPAL. 
QN wings of special lightning Jove has sent 

Iris to Tempe's vale, where stroll the Nine. 
News is arriving at the Delphian shrine, 
Upon the posting east, of deep moment 
And dreaded sequence. In the Orient 
A bright star would arise, that self-same e'en, 
Of such transcendent lustre as to outshine 
The Olympian volts combin'd ; by whose portent 
He might be warn'd, an angel's song would rise 
Of such glad tidings the Pierides [wonder 

Would thenceforth lack a theme. Which when in 
The weeping Sisters hear, with ne'er a scruple 
They hang their sorrowing harps on the oleander, 
While Iris drops a tear that turns to an opal. 

ERATO AND EUTERPE. 
pf/HILES yet I stood, with head bow'd reverently ^ 

A sound so dulcet-pure crept on mine ear^ 
So enticing -soft, so paradisian-rare. 
So insinuating-sweet, I turned — to see 
Those fair tzvin daughters of Mnemosyne 
And Zeus— for such in sooth I knew they were — 
Euterpe and Erato, tender pair ! 
Methought of Horace and his Lalage — 
And all true poets and true lovers since, 
Who have paid homage to their innocence 
And grace, both in and out of books. 
I tarried not to do mine humble part — 
Which was to shower their hyacinthine locks 
With handfuls of rose-petals from my heart. 



SONNETS. 179 

LOVE. 
COME heart-flowers, like some earthly blossoms, are 

Too chaste for human touch to dwell upon — 
Too modest to unfold beneath the sun ; 
As the night-blooming Cereus from the glare 
Of bold-eyed day conceals its charms with care — 
Close-hooded, like the consecrated nun — 
But bares them to the adoration 
Of some fine distant deferential star — 
Aye, freely unfolds its heart, in one full hour 
Of lavish grace, of golden confidence — 
Under the delicate heavenly influence — 
E'en tho' death be the cost, such trust to prove — 
Or separation, sadder : such an heart-flower, 
So lavish, yet so modest-chaste is love. 

ROSETIME IN WASHINGTON. (AN IDYL.) 
"DOSETIME in Washington. An eastern sweep 

Of cool verandah, vined with Mareschal Niels 
And trailing Brides, whereover trickling steals 
The sweet south, violet-laden. Thro' the deep 
Green gloom of the magnolia branches, seep 
The nectar'd moondrops down, and flow in rills 
Of liquid gold around the lily-hills 
And down the violet-borders. In their sleep, 
Like slumbering babes, the breeze-rockt lilies smile. 
And dream Aurora kisses them ; what while 
The wide-eyed jasmine-starlings glint and dance. 
And dart their Cupid-arrows thither and yon, 
And, percht on blushing bough of sweet La France, 
The mocking-bird makes love to Lady Moon. 



180 SONNETS. 

ANTICIPATION. 
A STARLIT lawn, with hints of soft florescence. 

Alone she listeth at the lattice-height. 
Of perfect days to be and full delight 
Comes from rose-thicket a melodious prescience. 
Not present yet, a swift-advancing Presence 
Dilates the air with breathings exquisite. 
That bei7ig about to be ! how perfect, quite 
O'er and beyond the being's very essence. 
How sweeter than all joy is that fleet hour 
That bringeth joy ! How rarer than all bliss 
Is faith's deep thrill before the trothal kiss ! 
O ! for some psychic trick, some secret power, 
To pulse that moment thro' Eternity ! — 
That thrice supreme— that being about to be / 

SHE HELD LIFE'S DULCIMER. 
CHE held life's dulcimer, and carelessly 

Brushed o'er its diapason. Hope and Fear, 
Sorrow and Joy, Ambition and Despair — 
Unto each vital chord, each fateful key. 
Her heart, with more or less of sympathy, 
Responded. But 'twas not till unaware 
Upon Love's golden string she dropt a tear, 
There came a breath of such pure melody, 
Her heart leapt up within her, all awake 
And quivering with a sacred bliss — Ah, take 
The harp away — it is enough, I said — 
The keynote struck, the destiny is read. 
Then knew I, up the angel-guarded road 
Of loving one her days would link tow'rd God. 



SONNETS. 181 

" AND EVERY MORNING AS I PASSED HER 

BOWER." 
A ND every morning as I pass'd her bower, 
I heard her singing to that tender key ; 
/ love you, love you, love you — thus sang she- 
I love you, love you, love you — till a shower 
Of golden love notes sprinkled all the floor, 
And spray' d the air, that liquid cadency 
Seep'd thro' the casement to the birds and me, 
Who upleaning drank, and drinking upleaned more. 
/ love you, love you, love you — thus she sang ; 
And sometimes thro' her ecstasy there rang 
A minor undercadence, sweetly-sad, 
As if a silver thread of sorrowing 
Already mingled with love's golden string ; 
And other times her note was purely glad. 

"HAVE YOU A RIGHT," AT FIRST SHE 
ASK'D HER HEART. 

" IJAVE you a right," at first she ask'd her heart, 
' ' To this great happiness that love bestoweth ? " 
And soft a voice made answer, " God He knoweth 
When and to whom His blessings to impart. 
Treasure the golden largesse. If thou art 
Unworthy of such bounty, it but showeth 
How his omnifluent mercy overfloweth 
The meagre measure of thy life's desert." 
And so she locked the God-gift in her soul, 
And said, ** I will live nearer to my God — 
So near as lieth in a human's might ; 



182 SONNETS. 

With noble thoughts and deeds I shall extol 
My spirit till it cleave its mortal clod — 
And doubt not if my rapture be my right." 

"I LOVE YOU SO." 

*' T LOVE you so, mine every thought is sweet," 
She sang, ' ' and burden light because of it. 
I love you so, that should I love one whit 
More than I do, mine heart would cease to beat. 
As liquids when they have attain' d the heat 
Of boiling do the chemist's skill outwit 
To make them hotter — sooner apt to quit 
Liquidity — even so do I, replete 
With loving you, defy the power of art 
To drop one lovedrop more into mine heart 
Till Heaven have deepen' d its capacity. 
I love you so, that if I could not be 
Myself so loving — all the world above, 
I would be you, inspiring such a love." 



"CAN TIME, THOU ASK'ST, MY HEART 

FROM THINE ESTRANGE?" 

" PAN time, thou ask'st, my heart from thine 

estrange ? ' ' 
She sang, " Beloved, love thou dost but mock ! 
Can hearts that love find time in time to change ? — 
That one tick of the great celestial clock 
The angels hear, wherein we can but clasp 
The thing we love and lay it on the tomb — 



SONNETS. 183 

That fleeting breath, wherein we can but grasp 
The keys of Heaven, when lo ! the gates uploom 
And we stand trembUng on the outer side. 
Ask, rather, can a breeze fan out the sun ? 
Love is eternal. Heaven is its throne, 
Infinitude its limit, God its guide. 
And time can only teach to thee and me 
A golden prelude to a love to be." 

''EARTH HATH MOMENTS." 
" RELOVED, earth hath moments when we need 
No proofs of Heav'n," she sang — "rare drops 
of time 
That fall Hke elixir from celestial clime 
Into the inner consciousness and spread 
A sense of Eden thro' the wearied head. 
Our spirits pulse ! spurn their material slime, 
And leap, enfranchised, to a height sublime 
To which nor science nor ritual nor creed 
Had ever builded. Thus, this golden trice, 
When thou dost let the heaven of thine eyes 
Drop on my stricken brows — now dews of pity, 
Now beams of love, now cataracts of kisses — 
Ah, love ! one leaps, in such an hour as this is, 
The jasper walls of the Celestial City. 

"THE PENDULUM MUST HAVE THE BACK- 
WARD SWING." 
nPHE pendulum must have the backward swing : 

Thus at what time I saw her raptur'd soul 
Drawn to'ards beatitude's extremest pole, 



184 SONNETS. 

I knew, ere long some secret inner spring 

Would snap and send it earthward fluttering. 

Thus swing our pendulum lives, 'twixt joy and dole, 

'Twixt Heaven and earth, until the twelfth-hour toll 

Our destiny and loose our shackled wing 

To go the way that hath no backward course. 

Sweet Spirit of Temperance ! steady thou our 

dreams — 
Poise thou our wing mid-heav'n, teach us to miss 
Both quicksand peak of joy and slough of remorse. 
Yet, Youth, we thank thee for these keen extremes 
That fit us better for the eternal choice. 

''SOME DAY." 

<•(■ COME DAY— some day "—She had a gentle way 

Of singing that, that made it sound so sad 
And far, far off. * ' Some day we shall be glad 
Again, Beloved, and our tardy May 
Will bring the redder roses for the gray 
And cheerless winter that so long has had 
Its roots deep-buried in its snowy bed. 
Mine own ! we shall be happy yet — some day. 
God will forgive us if we love too much, 
Or gently chasten us with Gilead touch — 
He knoweth that we love thro' Him alone — 
Then ever and aye let us be true, mine own ! 
Here or beyond the stars, I may not say. 
We shall be happy yet, some day— some day.'* 



SONNETS. 185 

THALIA AND TERPSICHORE. 
jdLAS ! soft spell of Eros — hearken there ! 
A sudden rustling in the myrtle trees, 
A merry laughter ringing on the breeze — 
Terpsichore and Thalia, blooming pair ! 
One might have known ye twain were hiding here. 
With flageolet and mask, sweet love to tease. 
Yet stay, bright goddesses ! Your spirits please 
Me well. We poets and lovers cannot spare 
Your m,erry intermeddling with our moods, 
Lest we should reach more wide, or soar more high, 
Or dive more deep, than wisdom's reed can measure. 
My hand, idyllic Thalia ! which includes 
The lighter half my heart, lent cheerfully. 
My foot, Terpsichore? — Mo?i metre, avec plaisir ! 

''WERE I A ROSE- VINE IN HER GARDEN 
GROWING." 

(To Music.) 

TlfERE I a rose-vine in her garden growing, 

Blowing, I'd grow so liigh, I'd blow so white, 
So high and white I'd grow and blow, at night, 
She'd think 'twas day, and when the wind was blow- 
ing 
My petals thither and yon, she'd think 'twas snowing — 
So thick, so quick, they'd dance and glance, so light, 
So bright. And when with all its dainty might 
Her tiny trowel o'er my roots came plowing. 
By kind degrees I'd loose my earth-grip tight — 
So subtly she would think 'twas all her doing ! 



186 SONNETS. 

But when old Winter came with frost and blight, 
I'd turn on him a countenance unknowing — 
Yea, scorn him, thorn him, till he took his flight- 
Were I a rose-vine in her garden growing. 

A VIRGINIA MOONSET. 

CCENE : Lovely Orange-on-the-Rapidan ; 

At Peliso, headquarters once of Lee, 
That only perfect man in history. 
Time : Moonset. Cast — nay ! that would mar the 

scene. 
Some landskips need nopersoncs, I ween, 
To give them sympathy, whatever be 
The opinions of the schools. Ideality 
Could only hold the mirror here : in vain 
Were any added touch of fancy's brush. 
Pale, tottering Lady Moon ! thy waning charms 
Were ever most alluring. A deep hush 
Is over all. Almost I hear her steps. 
Now — alas ! vcvj personcE — in his brave arms 
The Blue Ridge folds her, softly — and she sleeps. 

"MAY'ST PEEL ME A PEACH?" 

IVyTAY' ST peel me a peach ? Aye me ! had Byron seen 

Thee at table, Lady, he had never made 
That uncouth speech of his on breaking bread 
With women : rather than out of love, I ween 
He had fallen more in love with thee, thou queen 
Of hostesses ! — whose snowy board doth spread 
Such dainty, dainty viands as might be fed 



SONNETS. 187 

To Euterpe, seated on the Pierian green — 

Can I, her humble harpbearer, resist 

So dehcate homage, from a hand so chaste, 

A board so hospitable ? An' thou insist, 

Aye ! peel me a peach, but peel it not in haste. 

Beseech thee ! not so nigh — but let me reach, 

Lest I mistake the fingers for the peach ! 

MAM AGGY.— I. 
"nriTH snowy-white bandanna, knotted neat 

About her head, and one pinn'd round her neck, 
Tri-corner'd, o'er her dazzling homespun check, 
I see her on the kitchen door-sill seat 
Her faithful down, the golden yelks to beat 
For Sunday's pound-cake — 'round and 'round so 

quick 
A fluttermill had envied her the trick ! 
What time with straws I might manipulate 
The frothing whites — which, spill' d upon the ground, 
I now bewail. She puts her black arms 'round 
Me soothingly — no chiding word is spoken — 
And sings, '^ Dah-denf — seeing that my heart is 

broken — 
''Dah-den, dah-den " — till I rock off to sleep. 
The cake ? — O never mind that. Eggs are cheap. 

MAM AGGY.— II. 
CHE had but one tooth to her homely name, 

And that but strong enough to munch a jumble, 
Or meatskins, crispt till they fell all a-crumble — 
Or very mellow pears. I liked the same. 



188 . SONNETS. 

So sometimes she need dodge me, poor old Mam ! 

But ah ! when on the green I had a tumble, 

And lay there very still and white and humble. 

How like a ministering angel then she came ! 

And lifted me, and sang that fond refrain 

That always carried healing on its wings. 

And to this day when in its venturings 

My spirit gets a tumble on life's green, 

From memory's phonograph there comes again 

That Gilead lullaby — ^^ Dah-den, Dah-den,^* 



THE MINUET. 

TN powder' d periwig, and ruffled shirt, 

And proud knee-breeches with resplendent girth, 
Our pious grandpire led our grandem^re forth, 
In bounteous mutton legs and swelling skirt, 
In stately minuet to take a part. 
Ye olden days, or ere the giddy earth 
A-jigging went, alack ! — No time for mirth, 
No time for frivolous twirling heart to heart, 
To lightsome roundelay — no time for fun ; 
But time for grave consideration, 
Time for deliberating means and ways. 
For exercising heaven-bestowed talents— 
A coupee — and a long step — a7id a balance. 
They danc'd in sonnets in ye olden days. 



SONNETS. 189 



THE HEAVENLY MUSE. 



ylSojd this vale I merg'd, a fulgent light 

Burst o^er my vision^ blinding me with bliss- 
An effluence supernal. Certes His 
The beam that quenched Chaos and Old Nighty 
In the beginning, and did put to flight 
The Stygian desolation. Thus, I wis, 
Blinded by beatific dizziness, 
That ancient shepherd stood, when Oreb' s height 
Blaz'd forth God's secret. From no oracle 
Aonian could such luminous essence stream ; 
' Tis Sinai's mount, or Zion's holy hill, 
In gradual outline, with white wings a-gleaniy 
And dove-like brooding o'er Siloa's strand, 
The Heavenlv Muse extendeth me a hand. 

INVOCATION. 

r\ THOU who leanest forth in splendor calm, 

Amidst the golden whirl of chiming spheres, 
To catch the soft fall of Thy children's tears, 
And pour out universes from Thy palm ; 
Teach me from out my soul to lift a psalm 
Not all-unmeet for omnisentient ears, 
Which thro' the distance hear the mellowing years 



190 SONNETS. 

Glide down the stalk of Time, like drops of balm- 
Which heard the Future even before the Past, — 
Touch Thou my spirit in its protean youth 
To nobler issues, so that when above 
Thy summons call me, I shall have amast 
Something to lay upon the fane of Truth, 
Something to offer at the shrine of Love. 

MIZPAH. 
A CALYX of dead rose-leaves. I know not 
If Mareschal Niel, or Nonpareil, or Tea, 
La France, or Cloth of Gold, or Cherokee, 
Countess of Folkstone, or Marie Van Hout, 
Or Rainbow — time hath wiped the colors out. 
I only know a lov'd one gave it me. 
And 'twixt two sacred leaves I reverently 
Laid it, to mark a well-beloved spot 
In Genesis. Beneath the golden skies 
Of southern California there is 
A giant pepper-tree, whose utmost bark. 
To its limbs' ends, is o'er-fleck'd with La Marque 
Roses. For this magnificent bouquet 
Would I exchange these faded rose-leaves ? Nay. 

GOD FIRST. 
*' pOD first, and then we cannot love too we 11.^* 

So be it. Dearest, betwixt thee and me. 
God first, and last, and all, and let us be 
Dear to each other only as we dwell 
In Him, and He in us. Emanuel, 
** God with us," be our passport- word ; which we 



SONNETS. 191 

May well link out with kisses, joyously ; 

Or chime to laughter, like a silver bell ; 

Or music out in sonnet or in song ; 

Or balm with tears of tender sacrifice ; 

Or pass in silent sympathy along 

The happy level of our trustful eyes ; 

Or waft in prayer-waves to that far sweet home, 

Where Christ will keep the echo till we come. 

GRACE. 
'THAT which sufficient for us is ; whereby 

Our strength in weakness may be perfected. 
That which from Heaven is like sunshine shed. 
Alike upon the lowly and the high — 
Which even the poorest may most richly enjoy — 
Withheld but from the proud. What to a blade 
Of summer grass, that hangs a dying head, 
A drop of evening dew is, gradually 
Seeping into its roots ; that unto faith. 
Tried in the furnace, is a drop of grace 
Shed from the Mercy Seat. What to the path 
Of the lost pilgrim in the wilderness 
The Evening Star is, that is grace to doubt. 
That which what life were blameless, being without ? 

"WE MAKE MISTAKES, AND GOD O'ER- 

RULETH THEM." 

l^E make mistakes^ and God o' erruleth them,^^ 

To me, once sitting at her feet, she said. 

I took the crystal thought, all unafraid, 

And held it where God's pure sunlight could stream 



192 SONNETS. 

Thro' it full into my heart ; and, in this beam, 
The past was simplified and hallowed. 
Doubt-mists shone rainbows ; mysteries outspread 
Transparent wings ; blocks that did barriers seem 
Prov'd pavingstones, or curbstones, for the strait 
And narrow way that leads to Heaven's gate ; 
Briers were rosebuds ; wither' d leaves, rich soil ; 
Sorrows were sacred backgrounds, joys to foil. 
So in faith's crown I set as central gem — 
" We make mistakes, and God o'erruleth them,^^ 



BEATITUDE THE SECOND. 

TJER life, she said, a blessed one had been. 

Then whyfore, was my wonder, is her face 
So sorrow-chasten' d ? Now full well I trace 
Beatitude the second in her mien, — 
A dying-daily unto self, I ween, 
A pressing onward in the sacred race, 
Sandal' d with faith and panoplied with grace ; 
A heartache there I read, grown to a serene 
Patience, thro' easing aches of others' hearts. 
And thro' prayer-service. Aye, a blessed life, 
And clear to read. As daughter, sister, wife, 
Mother, and friend, she has climb' d the Christian stair, 
To where reflected Heaven-light imparts 
A peace that makes her widow' d face a prayer. 



SONNETS. 193 

IDA ASH. 
TJOW did she come to me ? — or was it I 

Who came to her ? — or did we come together 
Of one accord ? I know nor whence nor wliither 
We twain were journeying — was it yesterday, 
Or some dim preexistence ? — Destiny, 
With iron tread — or Chance, blown Hke a feather — 
Or clash of wandering stars — or freak of weather, 
That brought our hands to clasp in sympathy, 
Our eyes to meet in music, and our souls 
To leap en rapport ? — Nay ! as well divine 
Which of two intermelting dewdrops rolls 
First into the other. Whyfore seek a sign ? 
I only know, 'twas night : a voice : a flash 
Of nereid eyes — then day — and Ida Ash. 



13 



194 SONNETS. 



PARABLES. 



THE SOWER. 
DEHOLD, a sower goeth forth to sow. 

Some seed fall by the wayside, and are there 
Of fowls devour' d. Some where the earth is rare 
And stony fall, upspring, but are laid low, 
Being rootless, by the morrow's sun. Some blow 
Their careless way amidst the thorn and brier, , 
Flourish a day, then seized and choked are. 
But other some in good ground fall, and grow. 
Thus at Gennesaret, beside the sea, 
What time the multitudes were gather' d round. 
First parabled the great Sower — even He 
Whose every word-seed, rooted in good ground, 
An hundredfold to-day is bringing forth 
Of joy and peace in all the ends of earth. 

THE WHEAT AND THE TARES. 
A SECOND parable put He forth and said. 

Again heaven's kingdom may be liken' d to 
A man who with good seeds his field did sow, 
But whilst his servants slept there entered 
The enemy sowing tares, that where the blade 
Of wheat upsprung, upsprung the tare-blade too. 
The servant of the householder would go 



SONNETS. 195 

To uproot them, but his master him forbade, 

Saying, Nay, lest peradventure unawares 

Thou uproot the wheat-blade likewise. Side by side 

Till harvest time together let them bide ; 

Then say to the reapers, Gather first the tares, 

Bundle and bind and burn them ; then the wheat 

Into my storehouse garner, clean and sweet. 

THE MUSTARD SEED, THE LEAVEN, AND 
THE GOODLY PEARL. 

A GAIN unto a grain of mustard seed 
Our poet Saviour similizes heaven 
Establishing its throne on earth, — which, even 
Tho' smallest of all seeds it be indeed, 
Grows yet to an herb the branches whereof spread 
So tree-like that therein is lodgment given 
To birds of the air. Again, like unto leaven 
God's kingdom is, the which a woman hid 
In meal three measuresful, till lo, the whole 
Betimes was leaven' d. Now, like a great-pric'd gem, 
Which when the merchant saw he straightway sold 
All that he had and bought it. Thus parable 
On parable at Gennesaret He told, 
And without parable spake He not to them. 

THE TEN TALENTS. 
QN Olive's mount this metaphor He drew: 
As a man journeying to a distant land. 
So is God's kingdom, — who did first command 
His stewards 'round him, that his revenue 



196 SONNETS. 

Be husbanded. Five talents one, another two, 
Another one, he gave, to wisely spend. 
He with the five and he with the two did lend 
Their treasure out to the exchangers, who 
Reimburs'd it to them doubled ; so that when 
Their lord return' d he said to them. Well done, 
Ye good and faithful servants ! But alas 
For him who hid his talent, having but one ; 
Which when his master heard, his edict was, 
Take it from him and give to the one with ten. 



THE TEN VIRGINS. 

"IITENT forth with lamps ten virgins once to meet 
The bridegroom. Five were wise, and they did 
bare 
Oil in their vessels, and five foolish were. 
And they no oil took with them. Whilst that yet 
The bridegroom tarried, all in slumber sweet 
O'erpass'd the hours, till on the midnight air 
There came a cry, The bridegroom doth appear ! 
Then forthwith got the virgins to their feet. 
Fray give us of your oil, the foolish plead. 
Our empty lamps to fill. But made reply 
The wise. Not so, but go ye forth and buy. 
What time they went, the wise were welcom'd in 
The chamber by the bridegroom. Later when 
The foolish knockt, I know you not, he said. 



SONNETS. 197 

THE GOOD SAMARITAN. 
QNE ask'd, Who is my neighbor? Jesus said : 

A certain man going from Jerusalem 
Fell among thieves, who stript and wounded him, 
And then departed, leaving him half dead. 
By chance that way a certain priest estray'd, 
But when the wounded would his pity claim, 
He pass'd by on the other side. The same 
A certain Levite did, which saw and fled. 
But now a good Samaritan pass'd near, 
And seeing him took pity, and did pour 
Oil in his wounds, and to an inn did bear 
Him swift, and left him there, provided for. 
Which now was neighbor unto him that fell ? 
He that compassion had. Thou answerest well. 

THE LOST SHEEP. 
MURMUR' D a Pharisee, Lo, publican 

Receiveth He, and doth with sinner dine. 
Then allegorically did He define 
His purpose therein, saying. Now what man, 
Having an hundred sheep, is there, who, when 
He lose one, doth not leave the ninety- and-nine, 
Back to the fold his wandering sheep to win ? — 
Which having found, rejoicingly then 
Bearing it home, he saith to his neighbors, Lo, 
That which was lost is found ; rejoice with me. 
In the presence of the angels, even so 
O'er one returning sinner is more bliss 
Than over ninety-and-nine just persons is. 
Which have not gone astray. Thus answer' d He. 



198 SONNETS. 

THE UNMERCIFUL SERVANT. 
'PHIS lesson taught He at Capernaum : 

Once of his servants all a certain king 
Did take account, and on discovering 
One was his debtor to a goodly sum, 
Which he had not to pay, he bade him come 
Before him to be bound. But he did fling 
Him prostrate down with such a piteous spring 
Of tears, the king relax' d, unfix' d his doom, 
And gave him time of grace. As out he past, 
A fellow-slave he met which was his debtor, 
Whom, when he pray'd for grace, he bound in fetter. 
The king now, waxen wroth, the ingrate cast 
To the tormentors, till he pay his dues. 
Likewise the unforgiving God will use. 

THE RICH FOOL. 
A CERTAIN rich man's ground brought forth much 

grain. 
Within himself he thought. What shall I do ? — 
Seeing that he had no place where to bestow 
His fruits. This shall I do, he thought again— 
Pull down my barns and greater build ; which when 
I have done, unto my soul I shall say, Lo, 
My soul, look thou about thee and see how 
Much goods for many years thou hast uplain ; 
Eat, drink, and take thine ease, and merry be. 
But came God's voice from Heaven, saying. Thou 

fool, 
This night shall be requir'd of thee thy soul. 



SONNETS. 199 

Whose then shall be this bounty thou dost hoard ? 
Who layeth up treasure on earth, even so is he, 
Not being rich toward God. Thus taught our Lord. 

THE FIG-TREE AND ALL THE TREES. 

T OVE shall wax cold, and friends offence shall take, 
Break faith, and part, and hate with rancorous 
passion ; 
New Christs arise, with such smooth revelation 
The faith of all but the elect 'twill shake ; 
Earth, slinking to some pestilent hole, shall quake— 
The sun a shroud spread o'er her tribulation. 
In those days shall be that abomination 
Of desolation whereof Daniel spake. 
Then shall God's angels come with bugles down, 
And gather in, from heav'n's four winds, His own. 
Behold the fig-tree now, and all the trees. 
When they bud forth then know ye is summer nigh, 
So when these signs abound know ye thereby 
Appeareth suddenly the Prince of Peace. 

AT TRUTH'S DOOR. 

TZNOCK, and it shall be open'd unto thee; 
Not once and softly, but again and yet 
Again, even until honest sweat- beads set 
Thy brow with labor's gems — reiterately 
Knock without ceasing, midnight, dawn and day. 
Thro' numbing winter and thro' summer heat — 
And, ah ! thro' all the low south' s breathing sweet 
Alluring spices in the opposing way. 



200 SONNETS. 

The deeper be the silence therewithin, 
The louder, steadier be thy summoning. 
And if it chance, as thou dost breathless lean 
Against the door, thou hear some little thing 
Creak at thine ardor — faint not, neither cringe : 
'Tis envy percht upon the yielding hinge. 

FAITH AND SUPERSTITION. 

'TWO blind men thro' death's valley-shadows dense 

Once I saw journeying. By two asses one 
Was led : his name was Superstition ; 
The asses were Hearsay and Ignorance — 
With many an awkward balk and freakish prance 
Now dragging jerkily, now on the run, 
They led him helter-skelter, while the sun 
Sunk surely o'er the hill-tops. At one glance 
I observ'd the other kept an even path 
Unerring toward the light, tho' likewise blind. 
Approaching him, in reverence, from behind, 
I ask'd why this great difference? He said, 
Tho' blind, I feel the light — my name is Faith. 
He cannot feel, so thuswise needs be led. 



SONNETS. 201 



ABRAHAM. 

PLAY that did lack a flaw — the potter's choice 

To mould a vessel for His special grace — 
Obedient Abram ! with thy heaven-turned face, 
And ear uplifted for the guiding Voice. 
What wonder, when the message from the skies 
Came suddenly down, thou wast found in thy place, 
Ready to sign the covenant and to embrace 
The heavenly adoption ; ready to rise 
Out of thy "Abram "-hood, thy " fatherhood," 
To "Abraham," "father of a multitude?" 
As in unquestioning obedience bow'd 
Thou standest there, to doubting Thomases 
How art thou a divine antithesis, 
Thou "Father of the Faithful "— " Friend of God." 

JACOB. 

'THAT champion wrestler of the spiritual world, 

Jacob ! — who fac'd the Almighty at Peniel 
In battle, nor would let Him go until 
He brought the blessing down — thrice earthward 

hurl'd, 
Upspringing thrice again — he sway'd — he swirl' d — 
Nightlong he wrestled, till at last he fell. 
Thigh-pierced, disjointed — but victorious still ! 



202 SONNETS. 

No longer now a zealous dreamer, curl'd 

At foot of heavenly ladder, whereupon 

Angels ascending and descending run 

God's errands whilst He slept ; no longer call'd 

Jacob, "supplanter," but a king, install' d 

With heavenly insignia and diadem, 

Israel, "soldier of God" — root of the Lamb. 

JOSEPH. 
'THOU rainbow Joseph ! How the feminine eye, 

Down-diving thro' antiquity's abysses, 
Delighteth in thy pearl — ah ! surely this is 
A pearl of goodly price, man's chastity — 
A jewel to carry with him to the sky. 
As modesty a woman's chiefest grace is, 
So chastity a man's. In ancient places 
We find no rarer type than thine (we sigh 
Amidst our admiration, since so rare) 
And wear thee in our heart because of it. 
Chiefly. Though we would not withal forget 
Thine other Christ-like charm, almost as sweet — 
Thy spirit of forgiveness. If my prayer 
Were for one double portion, 'twere of that. 

MOSES. 
'THOU who conceiv'dest the beginning of things. 

Who broughtest God's creation to the front. 
And borest with thy staff and rod the brunt 
Of genesis warfare — without horse or wings — 
Monarch foot-soldier, ancient King of kings ! — 



SONNETS. 203 

Who parley'd'st with the Almighty on the mount ; 

And smotest granite into crystal fount ; 

Braving the darkness, famine, plagues, and stings 

Of the Egyptian exodus ; who did'st toil 

Thro' genealogic numberings ; and compile 

The law Levitical, with nicest care ; 

And recapitulate, laboriously, 

A tedious length of deuteronomy — 

At last to glimpse sweet Canaan from afar. 

JOB. 
T TPLOOMING in peculiar majesty, 

The epic hero of the ancient Word — 
Martyr of Uz ! — Let other harps be stirr'd 
To paean thy patience — thine independence be 
My extolling theme. Now, like some giant tree, 
Storm-tost, yet root-unshaken, with no bird 
To cheer thy branches, but a few absurd 
Crows cawing there a hollow mockery 
Of consolation — which thou dost outspew 
As did the mouth divine the Laodicean 
Lukewarmness. Prostrate now, with pain a-squirm, 
But to thy conscious uprightness still true. 
Lifting to Him who slayeth a trustful paean, 
And scorning human criticism, tho' a worm. 

ISAIAH. 
PLARION of Christ, herald of Calvary- 
Isaiah ! "the gospel prophet " — without peer 
Save only one, the Apocalyptic seer — 
How was Jerusalem's idolatry 



204 SONNETS. 

O'er-rioting her ancient dignity, 
When thou did'st startle the Judean ear 
With thine alarum-trumpet, bold and clear! 
Alas ! and how thy woeful prophecy 
True cameth quickly! Lo, Jerusalem 
The Beautiful, where crumbleth now thy fame ? 
But, ah ! how comfortably did'st thou forecast 
For them who mourn in Zion : the Beulah-feast, 
The nuptials of the Church with the I AM — 
The marriage-supper of the Bride and Lamb! 

CHRIST. 

nAY-SPRING, Deliverer, Just and Holy One, 

The Way, the Faithful Witness, Prince of Peace, 
The Bread of God, Lord of our Righteousness, 
Our Passover, true Vine, and Corner-stone, 
Adam the Second, only begotten Son, 
Image of God, desire of every race. 
Our Counselor, our Advocate for grace, 
The Morning Star, Horn of Salvation, 
Root and offspring of David, Israel's Lamb, 
Shepherd of souls, Emanuel, the I Am, 
The First and Last, Salvation's only Name, 
Our yesterday — to-day — for aye the same. 
Light of the world, and Conqueror of death, 
Author and Finisher of our Faith. 



SONNETS. 205 

JESUS. 
PHRIST-dazzled eyes we turn how comfortably 
To Thee, O gentle Friend, sweet Nazarene ! 
John-like upon thy bosom fain to lean. 
O eyes we love to look in ! eyes that see 
Beneath our faults our human frailty — 
Forgiving eyes ! and hands so strong and clean 
We love to feel our frail hands nestling in ; 
We kiss the white scars where thine agony 
Once flow'd for us, the stripes that heal'd our pain 
And paid the price of our infirmities, 
And in our blissful gratitude are fain 
To separate even Judas from his kiss, 
And, if we have them, say to our enemies, 
"To-morrow meet with me in Paradise." 

JOHN. 
"HTH Y do we love thee most, beloved John ? 

For that on Jesus' bosom thou did'st lean — 
** Whom Jesus lov'd " — no sweeter seal, I ween, 
Of honor ever yet was set upon 
A human brow — whom Jesus lov'd — the one 
Pure lover that the world hath ever known, 
The one pure bosom that hath ever been 
For human tenderness a blissful throne — 
All others but approximately tend 
To purity. Aye, even as a friend 
Embosometh a friend, did Jesus pin 
John in his breast, a redolent heart-blossom. 
Ah ! I do love to think that Jesus e'en 
Did have a pet : John lean'd upon His bosom. 



206 SONNETS. 

PETER. 

" Uenceforth a rock." What time the Patmos bliss 
We wing with John, 'tis safe to feel that thou, 
Peter, art our foundation-stone below. 
When earthward back we reel. What grace was this — 
** He7iceforth a rock " — no longer to Christ's voice 
A hearkener, a "Simon," but even now 
A piece of that firm grantite whence did flow 
The Horeb miracle — that rock which is 
** Higher than I," yet deeper than very hell — 
And yet, alas, how brief a time until 
Thou did'st become a great rock of offense, 
A mount of salt, a river of penitence ; 
But soon recrystalliz'd, more firm and better. 
With Luther we "thank God for Simon Peter ! " 

PAUL. 
p)AUL — giant of didactic geniuses ! 

Who, God-informed, dost of God inform. 
Where doth thy swift-revolving ardor charm 
Us most ? — Where thou dost zealously impress 
Upon the Roman mind God's righteousness ; 
Or liftest the Corinthian alarm ; 
Or layest bare thy lacerated arm 
In argument with Thessalonian Greece ; 
Or in Philippian acknowledgment 
Minglest with gratitude thy discontent 
Divine, at man's ingratitude and doubt? 
In every phase we find thee masterful, 
But at Damascus thou'rt most admirable, 
Where thou the courage had'st to face about. 



SONNETS. 207 

ISCARIOT. 
A RARE kaleidoscope one day I found — 
Logostos' gift to man. Witli olive tree 
'Twas fram'd, and Shittim wood of Araby ; 
In Babylonian leather was it bound, 
And with pure gold of Ophir rimm'd around. 
With reverent hand I turn'd it charmedly : 
Twelve crystal fragments of divinity, 
Combining 'round one central diamond : 
Chrysolite, sardonyx, jasper and sardius. 
Jacinth, chrysoprasus, beryl and emerald, 
Topaz, chalcedone, sapphire and amethyst — 
The apostolic twelve — all luminous. 
Save flaw'd Iscariot, a beryl cold. 
Refracting e'en the rays of diamond Christ. 

EVE. 
rjR ere into their bower of innocence 

The guileful serpent-fiend had glittering stalkt, 
And smooth into her charmed ear had talkt 
That honeyed and perditions confidence 
For which our earthly woe is recompense — 
Which earth's prime Paradisian purpose balkt ; 
Whiles yet down Eden-aisles they blissful walkt, 
Or ere deflower' d by disobedience — 
Is our most sweet First Mother sweetest here ? 
Nay ! for since when in the heav'ns God hung His bow 
Beauty but comes to us thro' prism-ray 
Of tear-mists. Even so Eve is sweetest where 
"They hand in hand with wandering steps and slow 
Thro' Eden took their solitary way." 



208 SONNETS. 

CAIN'S WIFE. 
pASTWARD from Eden in the land of Nod, 

Cain found a maiden in a mist. Whence sprung, 
Who knoweth ? Of what lineage ? Of what tongue ? 
Whyfore her wandering ? and whither her road ? — 
Mysteries unsearchable by word of God, 
Which curtaining silence therearound hath hung. 
And yet 'tis meet this maid be not unsung 
Of psalmist, and to her be not unshow'd 
Some gentle deference ; for the saints owe much 
To one who was foremother " of all such 
As handle harp and organ." Hence I am fain 
To brush from strings of mine this paean-strain 
To Jubal's ancestress — nay, to resist 
Thy claim is past my power, sweet maid o' the mist; 

HAGAR. 
DEER-LAHAI-ROI, the well between 

Kedesh and Bedad in Shur's wilderness, 
Where banisht Hagar in midnight distress 
Is found of the angel, weeping — 'tis the scene 
Where stand with claspt hands Pathos and Chagrin 
And interchange their subtlest sympathies, 
Saddest and bitterest of heart-histories, — 
In musing down the storied past terrene. 
Of the seed-royal visited, innocently, 
Too sudden lifted from hand-maidenhood. 
What wonder danc'd with pride the Egyptian blood, 
And barren Sarai should despised be — 
She banisht? Now, this angel-promised child — 
Ishmael — what solace ! * * a wandering man and wild. " 



SONNETS. 209 

SARAH. 
TN the tent-door in Mamre's plains she sat, 

Old and in years well-stricken, whiles her lord 
Beneath the hospitable tree outpour' d 
The fragrant milk, and serv'd the tender meat 
Unto the angel guests, and they did eat, 
What time she, modest, listen' d, nor once stirr'd 
The tent-door from behind. What wondrous word 
Now wooes her ear and makes her heart to beat 
A laughing lilt? Sooth, shall she, waxen old. 
Of God be visited, as is now foretold 
Of heavenly presence ? Comes a son soon after — 
Isaac (which, being interpreted, is " laughter") — 
"The father of twelve princes." Now she sleeps, 
Blest, in Machpelah's cave. And Abraham weeps. 

REBEKAH. 
'THREE pictures of Rebekah are stain' d upon 

The temple-panes of sacred reminiscence. 
One where with bubbling pitcher tipt she hastens 
To quench the stranger's thirst — familiar one. 
Now, meeting Isaac where he stands alone 
Beneath the meditating stars, she fastens 
Her modest vail about her, with sweet prescience 
Of being woo'd. Here, on her favorite son. 
With fingers deft and most exquisite tact. 
She sews the treacherous kid-skins to deceive 
A blind deathbed and Esau to deprive. 
That weakling, of the blessing coveted. 
Alas the guile ! Yet, rue it as we need. 
This charms us too. 'Twas such a mother's act. 
14 



210 SONNETS. 

RACHEL. 
"DACHEL, the damsel, leadeth Laban's sheep 
To well of Haran, from whose mouth away 
Jacob the stone swift roUeth, and — sweet day ! — 
Kisseth her, lifteth his voice up, and doth weep. 
Rachel, the wife, high-mounted on the steep 
Of camel's back, with nicest policy. 
O'er Laban's household-gods her skirts doth lay, 
The stolen treasure from his search to keep. 
Rachel, the mother, with prescient despair, 
Lifteth a wail and bitter lamentation. 
Which pierceth e'en to Jeremiah's ear, 
And is fulfilled in Herod's devastation. 
For Bethlehem's unborn firstborn weepeth she, 
Slain at the suck — nor comforted will be. 

RUTH AND NAOMI. 
*' WHERE hast thou glean'd to-day?" What 

sweeter twain 
Of Bible women than Naomi and Ruth ? — 
One thrice-bereaved and a widow in truth — 
" Mara " — her blind eyes pouring bitter rain — 
Husbandless, sonless, desolated — fain 
To flee the happy meadows of her youth, 
Now barren of delight, and black with drought, 
For Bethlehem in Judah, there to glean 
Ephah of meagre barley. — "Nay, intreat 
Me not from following after thee — 
Where diest thou I die, there buried be." 
When prone at Boaz' amiable feet, 
What lifts the sweet Moabitess above 
Her sex? That rarest passion, friendship-love. 



SONNETS. 211 



VASHTI. 



A HASUERUS maketh royal feast. 

From Ethiope's border and from India's shore 
They troop, for days an hundred and fourscore, 
To Shushan's hall — a glittering throng — to test 
His sumptuous bounty, and the night to waste 
In purple revelry. ' ' Whiles yet we pour 
The golden vintage down, bring ye before 
My majesty the Queen," is his behest, 
"That in her beauteous charms the eyes may lave 
Of these my merry guests." " But Queen Vashti 
Refus'd to come," 'tis said. O charming sound ! 
Fine spirit-flash thro' woman history ! 
"Vashti the Beautiful" — aye, and Vashti the brave — 
Who to be modest durst to be discrown' d. 

DORCAS. 
*' pULL of good works and almsdeeds which she did." 

What nobler epitaph on tomb to grave 
Than this brief character the Apostle gave 
Dorcas of Joppa? 'Round the sorrowing bed 
(Where Peter swiftly had been summoned) 
We see the weeping widows stand and wave 
The goodly coats and garments that the brave 
Deft fingers of dame Tabitha had made — 
Mayhap in midnight watches — till, alas, 
(How simply sad the words) '*it came to pass 
That she was sick and died." But "Tabitha, arise," 
Saith Peter now ; and, as she opes her eyes. 
He lifts her whole. So in sweet Beulah Land 
May Christ take all dead workers by the hand. 



212 SONNETS. 

MIRIAM, DEBORAH AND ANNA. 
CWEET o'er the centuried tumult rise the calm 

Inspired voices of three women seers, 
The sacred poetesses, without peers 
In Israel. First, timbrel' d Miriam, 
Leading her sisters, with victorious psalm. 
Past the Red Sea into the heart of Shur's 
Brine-flowing wilderness. Next, she who wears 
The ermine — Deborah, singing 'neath her palm, 
"The mountains melted before Israel's host." 
Last, widow' d Anna — and beloved most — 
True to one husband more than threescore years, 
Serving the Lord with fastings, psalms and prayers 
Both day and night. First after Simeon 
To lift an anthem over Mary's Son. 

MAGDALENE. 
""nrOMAN, why weepest thou ? " " For that my Lord 
Away they have taken, and I know not where 
Him they have laid." And is this woman, fair 
And tender, she from whom the entering Word 
Had late out-cast seven devils ? — and now stirr'd 
By such sweet desolation for her dear 
Lost Master. Is this the same that bare 
The precious alabaster box and pour'd 
The ointment on His head, and washt His feet 
With tears, and wiped them with her locks of hair ? — 
Whose sins, tho' many, yet were first forgiven, 
"For she loved much" — O judgment pure from 

Heaven ! 
" Last at the cross, first at the sepulchre " — 
And first our risen Lord went forth to meet. 



SONNETS. 213 



MARY. 



A LL gentle influences now descend, 

From whatsoever sources pure and high, 
And hover o'er my reverent harp whiles I 
Sing of the Mother of that Heavenly Friend 
Before whom every knee at last must bend 
And every head low bow. Sweet mystery ! — 
Virgin conceiver of Emmanuel by 
The Holy Spirit. Name most reverend 
Of womankind. The pearl of goodliest price 
Washt by the waves of time from Heaven's shore 
To shores terrene. Last, sweetest blossom shed 
By that frail flower, humility, ere its eyes 
It clos'd to ope this side of Heaven no more. 
Mary, Mother of Jesus — all is said. 



IN THE CRUCIBLE. 

T WATCH'D the jeweler fix his sensitive eye 

Over the crucible, turn on the test 
Of fire — now gaze with nice-pois'd interest 
Into the bubbling ore. No passer-by 
Dare near him, nor with pestering questions ply 
That awful monarchy of stillness, lest 
The sovereign sense be jarr'd. With swift arrest 
He turns the white heat off, for instantly 
His face is mirror' d — 'tis done ! 

Even so, I thought. 
Hath God through fires of affliction brought 
His chosen ones, to where they imag'd back 



214 SONNETS. 

His features — when His hand was swift to slack 
The testing-fires. Then came into my mind 
One face, pain-purified and tlirice-refined. 



" IN THOUGHT THE SEVEN GREAT MOUNTS 
I VISITED." 

TN thought the seven great mounts I visited 

That sentinel the sacred centuries : 
First, Ararat, the ark's calm resting-place ; 
Next, that dear Mizpah-heap where Laban made 
The covenant with Jacob — Gilead ; 
Law-giving Horeb, then, whereon God's face 
Shone in the bush, and where the still small voice 
Came to Elijah ; Sinai, whence were read 
The ten commandments ; Zion's brow serene. 
Where rose the temple ; Pisgah, from whose height 
Canaan was glimps'd of Moses, ere he slept ; 
And — grandest, saddest — the Ascension scene, 
Sweet Olivet, where David made his flight 
From Absalom his son — where Jesus wept. 

"THERE ARE TEN PRECIOUS STREAMS I 
LOVE TO TRACE." 

'THERE are ten precious streams I love to trace ' 

Thro' sacred soil : Hiddekel, Euphrates, 
Pisojt, and Gihon, bounding Paradise ; 
Jabbok, the conquering Jacob's wrestling-place ; 
Arnon, where, merging out the wilderness, 
Moses triumphant landed 'neath clear skies ; 



SONNETS. 215 

The brook of Cherith, where, led of God's voice, 
EHjah hid and was for many days 
Fed of the ravens ; Kishon, where the brave 
Deborah rais'd her matchless song of praise 
At Sisera's defeat — death-pool of Baal. 
Kedron, of Christ cross' d, after the betrayal ; 
And — noblest, Aq^xq-'sX— Jordan' s blessed wave, 
Our Saviour suffer' d to o'ersweep His face. 

A PSALM OF COMFORT. 

]U OURNERS in Zion, your mourning is not vain. 
Comfort ye ! God is powerful, God is kind : 
His promise is, the broken heart to bind. 
The feeble knees to strengthen and sustain. 
If at Bethesda's pool ye wait, in pain — 
If others press before and entrance find 
To the angel-troubled waters, whilst ye, blind 
And tottering, on the outside needs remain — 
Look up ! One there a place prepareth us 
Within His father's many-mansion' d house. 
If at Gate Beautiful, he will hear your moans. 
And send you leaping o'er the temple-stones ; 
Or if in Jordan's wave ye strive, have faith !— 
The everlasting arms are underneath. 

NARCISSUS. 

pMBLEM of vanity. Once a beautiful youth 
Enamor'd of himself (so runs the myth), 
Gaz'd on his image in a fount : forthwith 
He chang'd into a white narcissus. Sooth, 



216 SONNETS. 

A specious story 'tis, — thy face so smooth, 

Thy breath so unctuous-sweet, thy stem so Uthe, 

Thy head so drooping, and thy smile so bhthe ; 

And yet I love thee better — as in truth 

All things I better love — in thy divine 

Significance than in thy mythic pose : 

The "Rose of Sharon " — and Isaiah's " rose " — 

The Church of Christ— that made the wilderness 

To blossom, and the solitary place. 

Emblem of holiness — flower of Nazarene. 

ANEMONE. 

CAD flower ! of Flora banish 'd from the fold, 

Jealous, since her beloved Zephyrus 
Smil'd on thee, not ungracious — exil'd thus 
To pine thy days upon the desert wold, 
Unwoo'd, unwooable, unless Boreas bold 
O'ertake thee, and in passion's impetus 
Blow open thy chaste bosom, covetous 
To snatch thy golden heart. And yet, " Behold 
The liUes of the field " — for such thou art — 
Carpeting the holy plains of Palestine— 
Gennesaret's glory, and outrivalling 
Solomon's purple with thy crimson skirt, 
For which thou toil'd'st not, neither did'st thou spin. 
Glad flower! that kiss'd the feet of Israel's King. 



SONNETS. 217 



UENVOI. 

A VISION OF ART. 
I. 
FjENSE midway up an awful mountain-steep, 

Two maidens meet, who have not met before. 
Each journeys from a valley-land ; each o'er 
Her heart wears Art's insignia. One keeps 
Her eye fix'd on a star ; the other weeps, 
O'erwearied, but preserves a none less sure 
Upward advance, o'ercoming more and more 
The beetling distance; till, in mercy. Sleep 
O'ertakes them, meeting, and upon a bed 
Of mossy ease, beside a lulling stream. 
Enclasps them softly. Straightway now 'twould seem 
They had reach' d the toil'd-for summit, but instead 
Of being the topmost pinnacle, behold 
Swift peak o'ercapping peak on view is roU'd. 

II. 
COON waking, certes had these maidens twain 
Fainted of sheer despair, and backward bent 
A baffled course, had not the each been sent 
To uphold the other in this hour of pain. 
Down the dread steep they gaze, then up again 
To the o'erfrowning height. Shall they, half-spent 
With half a pilgrimage, still upward strain 



218 SONNETS. 

A laboring ascent, at last to find 

Vast distances beyond, unreckon^d? 

Bright underneath the inviting valleys spread 

Their bowers of indolence ; but brighter far 

Beckons o'erhead the spirit-guiding star. 

Now meet their crossing eyes — and up, where either 

Alone had swoon 'd, they lightly mount together. 



MY SONNETS. 

IV/TY sonnets — how I love you ! You have been 

My lighthouse-tower, wherein the lamp of Truth, 
By sorrow hung, safe o'er the reefs of youth 
Hath guided me to womanhood's serene. 
Vine-shaded shores — my safety-ark, wherein, 
Under Hope's iris archway, I have sail'd smooth 
To Faith's calm Ararat. Loath and more loath 
I grow to quit your dear confines, and lean 
I more and yet more upon them for support ; 
Slow to meander forth on serious wing 
Into those Daphne-dappled meads of Art, 
A prey to vain conceits, or fancy's sport; 
Rather content my sweets to be emptying 
Into this classic mould for poet's heart. 



V '^W 



.^'''h-^ 



*^ 



■%^'' 



.0^ 



^^ 



.1-" 



.0^ 






■/' 



.^0• 



4' . ., n ^ i^^ 






n . , -^j, 



>' 









' s "^ ■' " ' / '^ 



^0^* v#' 



-^.^^^ 



- t 






%. 






fi«r?p^''. 



/ ^*. 






l"^ ' 



O-.^' 



v.^^',.^-:''. 



'/' 



^*• 



•^^ / 



& . 






% 






%:, ^■^, 4 






'':■% 



"- '^^^.♦'' ■-/ 



v^/ 



--"v- 



